My Foe
by pgrabia
Summary: After a visit with his psychiatrist House is having a VERY bad day that is only aggravated by a run in with his rival.Can be read alone or as a follow up to "My Hell". HUDDY.Rated T for mature themes and coarse language.House/Wilson friendship.Pt 4 up!
1. Chapter 1 Part I

**My Foe**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

_**A/N: **_This story can be read on its own or as the continuation of a theme that follows "My Hell". I've been reviewing the episodes from season six so far to get a feel for Lucas' personality and behaviorisms but I'm finding some difficulty here, so please be patient with me if he is portrayed OOC. I'd appreciate any insight you may have concerning this, so please remember to review and let me know what you think!

**Warning: **This story involves adult issues that involve violence, sexuality and strong language. Reader Discretion is advised.

**Rating:** This is rated T for adult themes and coarse language.

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**Part I**

I'm lucky, I suppose. My meeting with my psychiatrist went well and he agreed not to recall me to Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital for my drinking if I attend AA meetings here in Princeton. While I'm not thrilled with the idea of sitting in a room in some community hall or church with a bunch of other drunks and exposing my private struggles publically, it _is_ better than being institutionalized again.

I kind of blew it the other day, although not as badly as I could have done. After a disappointing meeting with the woman I love where she rejected me I found myself sitting in a white collar lounge drowning my sorrows in overpriced Scotch. What's wrong with that, you may ask? Well, I'm an opiate addict and, although I'm loathe to admit it, an alcoholic. A _recovering_ addict and alcoholic—or at least I was before last Saturday. It could have been worse in that I had also bought some ill-begotten Percocet tablets and had debated whether I should just take a couple for the mind-numbing high they would produce or take them all and permanently get rid of all aspects of pain I feel on a daily basis. Before taking them there was a small voice in the depths of my soul that told me to call my therapist, Dr. Nolan, before taking any of them. Nolan had talked me through those moments of extreme weakness, temporizing to give my best friend and roommate Dr. James Wilson the time he needed to locate me and intervene.

Nolan had called Wilson and me in to see him to discuss with me what should be done to ensure that I was safe and able to stay away from using and abusing substances to self-medicate my depression. One of his suggestions was for me to return to Mayfield for further inpatient treatment which was absolutely the last thing I wanted to happen. I'm afraid that having to return would be the final nail in the coffin of my career. The way things were between Cuddy and me I know she would fire me and report it to the state licensing board before the door of her office hit me in the ass on my way out.

Wilson also knew that returning to Mayfield would cause me more harm than good and after some negotiation Nolan was willing to allow me to remain in Princeton on three conditions: Firstly, Wilson and I have to get rid of everything and anything in the loft that contained alcohol, including all liquor, liqueurs, beer, wine, mouthwash, and Nyquil. Secondly I have to attend AA meetings no less than three nights a week until my therapist is convinced it isn't necessary any longer. Finally the third condition is that I begin to see Nolan once a week instead of biweekly as we have been doing for the past two months. While I don't like the idea of having so much of my time taken up with twelve step it is a great deal better than becoming an impatient at Mayfield again.

The entire drive home there is nothing but silence in the car. My best friend hasn't spoken to me since we left Nolan's office. He doesn't look pissed off—in fact, he looks a little on the sad side as he drives—but I have no idea what exactly is going through his head. All I do know is how incredibly guilty I feel for him having to sacrifice a beer with pizza in front of the TV or a glass of wine with dinner because of me. He has been so good to me since my return from rehab…so much better than I deserve and now I am only adding another burden on him. If only I hadn't been an idiot and gone to that lounge, drank and bought that Percocet…but no matter how much I wish I could, I can't go back and change it now.

I try to break the silence; tension is high and my anxiety is on the rise.

"Wilson," I say quietly, staring straight ahead at the road in front of us. "I've been thinking that maybe it's time for me to make other living arrangements."

My best friend whips his head around to look at me so quickly that I can almost hear a crack. There's a frightened look on his face.

"Whaa—why? We're getting along fine…well, as fine as we ever get along," he asks me quickly. "Is it something I've done?"

I look at him incredulously. Did he seriously just ask if _he_ had done something wrong? This entire day trip to see my shrink was all about what _I've_ done wrong. This isn't about him, it's about me.

"You haven't done anything wrong," I tell him, shaking my head. "This is about me, about all the trouble I've caused you since I moved in with you. You've been a good friend, but now I'm causing another imposition upon you with the booze."

"That?" Wilson responds and then shakes his head in dismissal. "House, I should have got rid of all the alcohol as soon as I knew you were moving in. You're an addict, for God's sake! I should have thought of it but I didn't. Don't worry about the booze. If I want to have a drink there are plenty of bars in our neighborhood that I can go to."

I'm quiet for a while. His response isn't exactly what I expected. I was certain he would be a little relieved that I brought it up before he had to. I try to figure out what his reaction means. He looks nervous, almost panicked. It's like he's afraid rather than relieved that I will leave.

"You shouldn't have to do that," I tell him, glancing in his direction. "I'm not worth all of the disruption I've created for you. I think it's best if I go back to my own place."

Wilson is silent now, but I see his emotions at play in his dark brown eyes and animated face. He has never been able to lie to me with me knowing. I haven't always called him on it because I figure sometimes there are damned good reasons to lie, but he can't contain a look of guilt whenever he does. Likewise it usually fairly easy to read what he is thinking and feeling by the expression in his eyes.

He rubs the back of his neck, and I detect a look of _hurt_; this reaction nearly floors me. Wasn't it only last fall that Wilson wanted me to move out of Amber's apartment because the neighbor below didn't like me (or anyone else for that matter)? Now he looks upset that I'm suggesting it myself.

"Nolan won't agree with it, especially now," he says to me quietly. He's gripping the steering wheel tightly; the muscles of his lower arms are tensed up. "I don't think it's a good idea either. A couple of days ago you were holding a handful of pills contemplating taking them all."

I look out the side window, watching the scenery whiz by but not really paying attention to any of it. He wants me to stay because he's afraid that I will off myself as soon as I'm alone. Is that because he doesn't want to lose his friend or because Wilson can't handle personal loss very well and he doesn't want to go through anything similar to what he had with Amber? Or is it he'd feel guilty and he would rather be put out than feel guilty? Then again, it may be that he's afraid that if anything should happen to me people would level looks of reproach on him, assuming that he kicked me out and that was the impetus of my fail? I know that Wilson is proud of his good-guy reputation and doesn't want that compromised.

"I'll let it be known that I moved out, not that you kicked me out," I tell him, not looking in his direction. "If anything happens to me no negative response will fall on you."

"Is that what you think this is about?" Wilson asks me, his voice sounding strained. "That I don't think you should move out because of how _I_ will look? That I'm concerned about what it will do to _my_ reputation?"

I look over at him. "Isn't it?" I ask him, an angry edge to my voice.

My friend signals right and hits the brakes, pulling his Volvo off of the highway and parking it on the shoulder. He runs a hand through his hair and takes a couple of deep breaths before looking at me. His chocolate brown eyes are misty.

"House," he says, his voice quavering slightly, "Has it ever occurred to you that the reason I don't want you to move out is because I actually _like_ having you as a roommate—that I actually _enjoy_ your company? Could it be that I _care_ about you and don't want to see anything bad happen to you?"

I see the intensity in his eyes and realize that he is being sincere. It kind of spooks me. I'm not accustomed to hearing someone tell me that they care about me. I know that I care a great deal for him and I'm not certain how I would react should he die—it was hard enough on me to watch him risk his life by undergoing a living-donation of part of his liver! I don't know how to respond to that without feeling foolish and losing face. So I do what I always do in this kind of situation—I make a joke and deflect.

"My, Wilson," I purr and smile slyly, giving him a wink. "I had no idea!"

Wilson keeps staring at me, not amused. "This is a joke to you? You think this is funny?" He shakes his head in disgust and looks out the windshield.

I realize that I've hurt him and feel guilty. Why do I always have to question his motives when it concerns me? Why can't I give him the benefit of the doubt and take his words at face value? Why do I have to be such a jerk?

"No," I tell him with a sigh, sobering. "It's not. I just don't want you to end up resenting me and having that hurt our relationship, that's all."

My friend is quiet a moment before looking at me intensely. "Exactly what _is_ our relationship, House? How would you define it?"

The question takes me aback. What kind of relationship do I think we have? Is he serious? We're friends—best friends. What kind of relationship does _he_ think we have?

"You're my best friend, my only friend, really," I admit uncertainly. "How would you define it?"

A bitter little smile crosses his lips. He keeps staring straight ahead and half-shrugs. "You mean more to me than my brother does. Than Danny did."

Danny was another brother Wilson had been close with when he was younger. For him to tell me this is extremely significant. I really didn't know he felt that way. Unlike my family Wilson's growing up was a functional, even loving unit. Family is important to him, and he cares more about me than he does family; No one has told me that before, not even Stacy and she was my lover.

"Anyway," he says, "If you insist on moving out then I won't try to stop you--just don't do it because of me." He turns on his left signal and then waits for a break in traffic on the highway before joining it again.

I stare at him for several minutes, thinking about what has just transpired and trying to figure him out. Wilson is just as big of an enigma to me as I know I am to him. I live to solve puzzles, I'm very good at it, but I don't know if I'll ever be able to figure him out. Perhaps that's why I like him—life with him is never boring.

The rest of the drive is silent. We arrive back at the loft around noon and are expected at the hospital after lunch. As soon as we are inside Wilson heads directly to his bedroom and shuts the door. I go to the kitchen and make two Dagwoods—one for me and one for Wilson-- and pour a large glass of milk; I'm famished! As I go to put the milk carton back into the fridge my eyes are drawn to the bottom shelf and the partial six-pack sitting there. I would much rather have a cold beer than milk and the temptation to grab a bottle is incredibly strong. I feel breathless as I look at it and my hands tremble, my eyes glued to it. I unconsciously lick mp lips, imagining how it good it tastes. I look over my shoulder but Wilson is nowhere in sight. It occurs to me that I do work today, but I don't have a case right now and one beer will be metabolized by my liver by the time I get to the hospital anyway.

I grab a bottle before I can change my mind and twist off the cap, taking a deep pull. It tastes better than I imagined. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand I take the bottle and my sandwich and go to the kitchen table to eat. I'm conscious of the fact that Wilson could come into the kitchen at any moment and catch me with the beer; that wouldn't be good. That being the case I finish it quickly and then put the empty into the recycling box under the sink. I grab the milk I poured and return to the table to finish my lunch. I can't shake the guilty feeling I have although I'm not certain why I feel that way. Alcohol really was never the problem with me in the past. Yes, I did drink quite heavily before rehab but I could go without it if I had to, unlike the Vicodin. I rationalize this way until Wilson arrives.

He has changed from casual to professional, doing up one of his cufflinks as he arrives in the kitchen. He's wearing a crisp white dress shirt and grey dress pants and spit-shined black leather dress shoes. One of his God-awful ties hangs loosely around his collar; it was an olive green with thin mustard-colored stripes running diagonally across it. Where did he get those ugly things, anyway? He looks good, though—he _always_ looks good, which is why he has the reputation with the ladies that he has. Hanging his suit jacket on the back of a kitchen chair he goes to the fridge to find something to eat and finds the sandwich I made him sitting on the top shelf.

"Did you make this?" he asks, pulling it out and raising it for me to see.

I nod, swallowing before saying, "For you. Don't drink the milk; it tastes funny." I take a swallow of the beverage.

Wilson grabs bottled water and takes a seat at the table with me. "_You're_ drinking it," he comments, frowning slightly.

"Tastes fishy," I answer, shrugging, "like tuna or something. Did you leave the lid off of some in fridge?"

"I haven't prepared fish lately," he tells me and then takes a large bite out of his Dagwood.

"Could just be me," I comment, "another side-effect of my psych meds popping up out of nowhere." I finish the rest of my milk, making a little face at the aftertaste when I finish.

He nods in agreement.

We finish our lunch, clean up from it and then head to the hospital. I ride with Wilson simply because we're leaving at the same time. On the way I start to feel butterflies in my stomach. At some point this afternoon I will almost certainly see Lisa Cuddy, the woman of my affections, for the first time since our Saturday rendezvous at the park. I have no idea what kind of reaction I will get from her and I decide that I'm going to do everything I can to avoid the Dean of Medicine today, including doing my clinic hours without her having to hunt me down and nag me to do them (like she usually has to). Truth be told, I don't hate it as much as I used to, unless, of course, I'm having a bad leg day. Today, however, the pain in my leg is only hovering around a four out of ten, which is a good leg day for me sans opiates.

Wilson and I don't make it past the Clinic before Cuddy emerges from it and zeroes in on us. By the look on her face I have a sinking feeling this is not going to be a good. She stops right in front of us, blocking our path, her hands on her hips. She looks incredible today, but then again I can't think of very many times I have seen her where she hasn't looked anything less than incredible. Her dark brown hair has been flat-ironed and teased to perfection. The pale blue blouse she wears, while not a color she typically wears, brings out the blue in her grey-blue eyes. It is a v-neck that plunges low-enough for me to see the curve of her breasts as they emerge from her white lacy push-up—but of course, the blouse doesn't have to be very low-cut for me to have a nice view from my height. Being tall definitely has its advantages. A medium-grey pencil skirt and three-inch grey pumps with perfectly curved legs in between finish the entire delicious package.

The Dean of Medicine notices me noticing her and gives me a glare but I don't buy her indignant posture one bit; she dresses the way she does to be noticed, to be looked at and admired by the opposite sex. I'm not complaining; I simply don't see the point of her generating the pretext of being offended. Ordinarily I would have said something suggestive about how good the twins look today but I know that I am already walking on thin ice with her and decide to keep the comment to myself. She is my boss, after all, and I do like my job even though I don't always act like I do. My stomach is a little queasy and I'm mildly surprised at just how uneasy I am.

"Nice of you two to finally show up," she says to us, annoyed. "You'd think it was a work day or something! I can't wait to hear the explanation."

Wilson and I exchange looks of confusion. My best friend is the one to voice our question.

"What are you talking about?" Wilson asks her, frowning, looking a little annoyed, himself. "We called in to let you know we wouldn't be in until after lunch. We left the message with your assistant."

"I didn't receive any such message," Cuddy said skeptically, "and I talked to my assistant the very first thing I did this morning. You're going to have to come up with something better than that. What, did the strip club in your neighborhood have a two for one breakfast and lap dance special running this morning?"

Looking at her in complete amazement I can see Wilson beginning to boil under his collar and I decide to speak up if for nothing else than to prevent him from saying something that will get him twenty hours extra Clinic duty.

"Sorry," I snark, trying to appear nonchalant about the whole misunderstanding, "that's only on Friday mornings. Monday mornings it's one-dollar double-feature at the peep shows downtown."

Cuddy looks at me like she is about to strangle me and opens her mouth to blast me when Wilson steps in to rescue me. "I don't know why you didn't get the message, Cuddy, but I'm the one who called in today and left the message with Brenda. House had an unexpected appointment with his therapist which I was asked to attend. If you want you can check with my assistant—I called her right after you so she could rebook a couple of appointments I had this morning. Now, if you'll get out of our way, I have an appointment this afternoon that I'm going to be late for if I have to stand here and argue with you any longer!"

I look at Wilson and am impressed. He's usually the people-pleaser, always trying to maintain the peace but this time he is pissed off and unwilling to put up with her crap. I can't help but smirk with approval.

Cuddy returns his glare with a glare of her own but after a moment steps aside of him, still standing in my way. "You," she says to my oncologist friend, using her thumb to point towards the elevators, "go! You," she says to me, "in my office, _now!_"

Wilson casts me a look that asks me if I want him to stick around and kick her ass but I give him a quick shake of my head, telling him to get while the getting's good. Reluctantly he heads for the elevators.

Cuddy marches towards her office. With a reluctant sigh and a roll of my eyes in protest I follow. Suddenly my leg pain shoots to a six out of ten; just my luck. On top of that I feel a headache coming on and my stomach still feels unsettled, like something I ate isn't agreeing with me. This just isn't my day.

Once in the privacy of her office I close the door behind me and take a seat in one of the two chairs sitting in front of the Dean of Medicine's desk, stretching out my right leg to help prevent it from cramping up. She is already behind her desk, working at her computer.

"What's really going on?" she asks me harshly, glancing at me occasionally with angry eyes.

"Exactly what Wilson told you," I answer, becoming a little exasperated with her. "I had an appointment with Nolan who asked Wilson to be there because what we were meeting about concerned him as well. We stopped at the loft for lunch and came here. Do you want me to repeat it again or can I go do some of my Clinic hours now."

"There was no message," she tells me, leveling her eyes on mine.

"Then Brenda screwed up," I tell her, my voice hard. I meet her gaze fearlessly. This time I'm telling the truth.

Looking away first she sighs and sits back in her chair. "What's with the unexpected appointment with your psychiatrist?"

"I don't have to answer that question," I tell her stiffly. The last thing I want to do is admit to her that I was in seeing my shrink because I got drunk and considered suicide after her rejection. I don't want to give her that much power and I especially don't want Lucas to know.

"I'm just concerned," Cuddy tells me, her expression softening.

_Oh no you don't! _I say under my breath. _You are _not _going to give me mixed signals again, sucker me in and then humiliate me like you did in the park! _I care so much for her, but I can't let her take me to that place again because if I do, and she hurts me again, I'll likely end up taking all of the pills next time.

"Like you were on Saturday," I retort as coldly as I am able. "Thanks, but no thanks. I can do without that kind of concern." I rise to my feet, grab my cane and begin to limp for the door; I don't give a damn whether or not she is finished with this conversation because _I am_.

"House, wait!" She calls after me. "Please, I need to explain!"

I stop and look over my shoulder to her. My eyes narrow with hurt. "You don't need to," I tell her. "That slap on the face was explanation enough."

"House--!" Cuddy begins to protest but I cut her off. I intend on having the last word this time!

"Just one thing," I say. "At one point we were friends. When did that stop—when I shouted off the mezzanine that I slept with you, or was it when I returned to Princeton with my hat and heart in my hand? Because lately you've been avoiding me like the plague, treating me like your worst enemy. If that's the way you want it, fine. You're no longer anything more than my boss!"

Before she can say anything—positive or negative—I leave as fast as my gimp leg will let me. I swear I can feel her eyes boring through my back. _Good_, I decide. _Now she knows what I felt like in the park!_

I head directly for my office. In the conference room Foreman sits at the table reading a journal but no one else is around. I don't bother going in there. I hang my jacket up and set my backpack down on the sofa then go to my desk and sit down. My blood is pumping hard in my veins, hard and fast. I'm not feeling good now. My head is throbbing, I feel nauseous and there is a faint cramping sensation in my abdominal muscles. While it is entirely possible these symptoms can be attributed to my heightened emotional state, I wonder. On top of everything else, am I coming down with the flu, too? I open the top drawer of my desk and pull out the bottle of A.S.A I keep in there. I pop a couple of the bitter tablets and bite them once before dry swallowing them. They should take care of the headache at least.

My intention this afternoon was to do some of my clinic hours, keep my nose clean and avoid Cuddy—but since I have already had my run-in with her, and I feel lousy, I decide to lay down for a few minutes first. Once my headache is under control and my stomach settles down I'll head to the clinic. I push my backpack onto the floor and lay myself down onto the sofa, careful not to cramp or jostle my bad leg. I lay my right arm over my eyes to block out the light and focus on my stomach, trying to will the nausea away.

I must have drifted off for a little while because I don't remember anything until I feel a hand on my forehead and then a cool, damp cloth wiping my face. I open my eyes to see Wilson kneeling next to the sofa, frowning.

"House?" I hear him ask me but he sounds like he's a mile away. "Are you alright?"

My stomach begins to churn violently while at the same time terrible spasms in my abdomen make me moan in pain and curl up like a fetus. I force myself to sit up; I know that if I don't hurry and get myself to a bathroom now I'll be sick everywhere! I push Wilson aside and rise to my feet. It is then that I see Foreman watching over me as well. I don't take the time to acknowledge him or even search for my cane. Hobbling with my bad leg I go as fast as I can and barely make it to the men's room before I begin to heave. I bang open a stall, hang over the toilet and puke up everything in my stomach all at once or so it seems. The heaving doesn't stop there, however. I keep vomiting and vomiting, my stomach muscles screaming painfully with the spasms. Even after my stomach is completely empty I continue to heave, bringing up stomach acid and bile.

Eventually there is a break in the vomiting, but the cramping in my bowels is running full-steam ahead! I barely get my pants and shorts down and plant myself on the toilet before they let loose as well. The pain in my abdomen is almost enough to make me completely forget the pain of my thigh. At that moment I wish that I was dead because my body certainly felt like it was dying.

When my body finally calms down a little, my body exhausted and trembling from weakness, I force myself to a standing position and clean myself up the best that I can. I was fortunate and made it to the toilet this time, but if this continued I may not be so fortunate again. I flush the mess away and then somehow find the strength to make it to a sink. Standing in the bathroom are both Wilson and Foreman, watching me carefully. I brace myself against the sink and then wash my hands, arms, neck and face then scoop some water into my mouth to rinse out the vomit and bile taste. My body is trembling quite a bit now.

"Are you going to be okay?" Wilson asks me, approaching and placing a hand on my shoulder.

"I think I have the flu," I tell him. "I have to go down to the Clinic."

Wilson laughs incredulously. "House, if you have the flu you can't treat patients! Besides—it's six-thirty! The Clinic is closed for the day."

It's my turn to look incredulous. "No," I tell him, shaking my head. "It can't be! I only laid down for a few minutes. It can't be any later than two."

My friend shakes his head and shows me the face of his watch. I stare at it for a moment, not believing my eyes; it is in fact six-thirty-three.

"You slept all afternoon," Foreman tells me with a crooked smile. "I went down to the Clinic shortly after you laid down and when I came back around six to grab my stuff and head for home you were still lying there."

"I came by to see if you were ready to go home," my oncologist friend tells me, still frowning in concern, "and found Foreman standing over you, trying to wake you up. You were sweating profusely and groaning in your sleep."

"Fever," I croak. "It's the flu, alright. Take me home Wilson."

"Alright," he tells me covering his face with one hand while wrapping an arm around my shoulder and allowing me to use him as a crutch back to my office, "but let's stop at a janitorial supply room to pick up a few plastic trash bags for the ride home."

"Thanks," I say to him sarcastically. "Why don't you just stick me in the trunk while you're at it?"

"Actually," he responds, looking quite serious, "if you wouldn't mind…?"

I give him a death glare which causes him to stop talking. At my office I pick up my jacket, backpack and cane and then Wilson and I make our way to the elevators. Fortunately the car is empty when it arrives so I don't have to suffer the stares of people taking in the picture of a sick gimp.

As we walk through the lobby on our way out I feel my stomach start to churn again but I'm not too worried about that. There can't possibly be anything left in my stomach to barf up. As we reach the lobby doors we run into my foe, Lucas Douglas. The private investigator is about fifteen years younger than I am and not nearly as tall. He has medium brown hair, average build and a boyish face that looks deceptively innocent and trustworthy for the weasel he really is.

A few weeks ago Wilson and I learned just how evil and destructive he could be when he pranked us in retaliation for purchasing the loft that Cuddy and he had been aiming to buy out from underneath them. Actually, he was trying to send a message to _me_ to back off from Cuddy and leave her and him alone, that he is superior and the sole possessor of her heart but Wilson ended up being in the line of fire. He put an opossum in Wilson's bathtub; the vicious little marsupial caused quite a bit of damage to the bathroom before it was caught and removed but not before it scared the hell out of my friend. Next he loosened a safety bar I installed by said tub to aid me to get out of the tub after a bath. After one such bath I grabbed the bar to lift myself out and it gave way, sending me flying back into the tub. I was fortunate and didn't hit my head but I came within an inch of doing to. If I had, and had been knocked unconscious I could easily have drowned before anyone would have found me. His next attack was on the loft itself; he rigged the sprinkler system to go off unexpectedly and drown the entire place as well as the contents therein; thousands of dollars in water damage were caused not to mention the inconvenience of finding somewhere else to stay while everything dried out and repairs were made. Up until that point we had no idea that it was Lucas who was behind this until he confessed to us his guilt in front of several witnesses in the hospital cafeteria—right after he tripped me and sent me flying face first, tray and all, to the floor.

Even after all of that I refused to retaliate—not because I am a better man who is above such primitive territorial behavior but because it wouldn't make any difference at all. Cuddy was never informed of the truth and even if she had been she likely wouldn't have believed it. It wouldn't endear her any more to me or give me a hand up on the jerk she is living with. If I got caught, it would only solidify in her mind what she has been convincing herself of for months—years, really—that I'm an irresponsible destructive villain and Lucas is the unfortunate victim of my insanity. The truth is, he does have the upper hand with Cuddy; she has voluntarily submitted herself to his manipulative control and will not listen to reason concerning him. As much as I hate it, she's made her choice and there's nothing more that I can do.

Wilson and I exchange baneful glares with Lucas and it's obvious to anyone watching that there is no love lost between us.

"Hello, Wilson," he says, smiling coldly with an affect of smugness. "House, I'm surprised to see that you actually showed up at work today. Too bad about Saturday. When will you learn that you've lost and I've won? Do I need to remind you again of that fact?"

"There's no contest from me," I tell him weakly, feeling like I'm going to start heaving again any moment. It's unfortunate that my stomach is as empty as it is. I would love to vomit all over him just about now. "She's all yours. You two deserve each other."

He smirks and then eyes me up and down with disgust. "You look terrible," he tells me. "You look like you fell off the wagon. You didn't, did you? Because that wouldn't bode well for your job should Lisa and the Board discover that you have. State licensing board wouldn't be too thrilled either."

I see Wilson bristle; he's been the one between the two of us who has been the most anxious for retaliation, surprisingly. Usually he's the one struggling to hold me back from a brawl.

"He hasn't relapsed, Lucas," Wilson spits at him angrily. "He has the flu. Go shove that up your--."

"Time to be going," I say, cutting Wilson off and preventing him from further antagonizing the little creep. I weakly push Wilson towards the exit, turning my back on my antagonist.

"Get better soon," Lucas calls out sickeningly sweetly. Wilson begins to turn back as if to run at him but I grab my friend's arm again and pull him with me outside.

"Why do keep protecting him after what he's done to you—to _us_?" the oncologist demands angrily.

"I'm not protecting him," I tell my friend, "I'm protecting _you_."

Wilson looks at me indignantly. "_Me_? I can take that runt out with one hand tied behind my back!"

Of that I have no doubt. I've seen Wilson raging angry more than once and he's scared me every time. "Yes," I tell him wearily as we slowly continue towards Wilson's car. "You take him out, then he has you arrested for assault, he sues you and he makes certain Cuddy hears only one side of the story. You end up as one broke, unemployed oncologist facing jail time. You can't beat a guy like that blow for blow; he's entrenched. To destroy him you have to force him to destroy himself."

"So, General House," Wilson quips sarcastically, "what do you suggest we do?"

I can't respond to that question because I suddenly double over from a strong, painful abdominal spasm. My friend grabs me quickly to keep me from falling down.

"House," Wilson says to me worriedly, "maybe it's not a good idea to be taking you home. Maybe you should be kept here for observation."

"For the flu?" I exclaim, straightening up as the cramping passes. "Just take me home so I can collapse in bed and die there."

"That's what I'm afraid of," he mutters but doesn't argue with me further.

We reach his car and he helps me get in before rounding the front and climbing into the driver's seat. As he drives I curl up in my seat as much as I can without antagonizing my leg into hurting more than it already is. It seems to be cramping a little as well and I hope that it doesn't get any worse than it is right now or else I may be facing breakthrough pain on top of the flu. I begin to shiver a little and my joints begin to stiffen and ache. _Damned flu,_ I think. _Who the hell catches the flu in February?_

"How are you holding up?" Wilson asks me when we are about half-way back to the loft. He has those worried puppy dog eyes glancing at me.

"Cold," I tell him softly, wrapping my arms around myself and shivering.

"The chills too, huh?" he asks rhetorically, shaking his head. Reaching down to the control panel he turns the heater on a little and turns on the seat warmers. It feels good for a while but then even that action fails to make me feel better. My headache is back with a vengeance.

It seems like an eternity before we reach the loft. Wilson helps me out of the car. I feel a little lightheaded as I stand up and I grab Wilson's shoulder to steady myself. He casts me another worried look which I choose to ignore. It's a wonder that he has any lining to his stomach left with all of the worrying he does.

He has to help me most of the way up to our place. Once there I hurry to my bathroom and am sick again. I can feel my pulse in my neck and notice that it's quite rapid and weak. Bradycardia, I tell myself. Hypotensive. I'm dehydrated and I know that I have to replenish the fluids I've lost being sick if I want to stave off hypovolemic shock.

I finish up in the bathroom and head for the kitchen to grab a glass of water when I meet Wilson in the hallway, carrying a tray holding a pitcher of water, a glass and two extra-strength ibuprofen tablets. He read my mind.

"To bed," he orders, nodding towards my bedroom. He doesn't have to tell me twice. I limp ahead of him and pretty much collapse on my back onto my bed. Wilson sets the tray down on top of my dresser and then approaches me. "Get undressed," he tells me.

"I knew it was only a matter of time before you tried to take advantage of me!" I tell him with mock-horror, hugging myself protectively.

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Yes, House," he says deadpanning it, "I can resist no longer; I'm here to ravage you. Take your clothes off so we can get things started."

"My mother told me about men like you," I quip with a smirk, forcing myself to sit up. I scratch at my arms, which have begun to feel itchy. Come to think of it, my legs have, too. I undress quickly down to my boxers as my friend goes into my bathroom and returns with the waste basket double-lined with plastic garbage bags. I don't have to ask what that's for.

"Here," the oncologist hands me the ibuprofen from off the tray and pours a glass of water, handing that to me as well. "Take these and finish that glass of water and the next one I pour you."

"Yes, Mommy," I say as I pop the pills into my mouth. I know that they won't come close to easing the pain I feel throughout my body, but they will fight any fever I may have. I swallow them with the water that tastes decidedly saline. "You put salt in this?" I ask him, making a face.

"Of course," he tells me. "You're dehydrated and you've lost a lot of electrolytes. I don't want you to go into shock. Drink up."

I obey and after that I climb beneath the covers, relishing the feeling of the pillows supporting my tired and achy neck and the mattress holding up body. I scratch absently as I watch him place the waste basket easily within my reach.

"How is your stomach?" Wilson asks me. "Do you need something for your nausea?"

I shake my head in response. My stomach has actually settled some, at least for the time being. All I really want right now is to be left alone to suffer in the dark until exhaustion overtakes me and I fall to sleep.

"Okay," my best friend tells me gently. "Try to get some rest. If you need anything just bellow. I'm certain you know how to do that."

"Ha ha," I say dryly. "Thanks, Wilson."

"You're welcome," he tells me before turning off the light and leaving the room.

It takes me a while to fall to sleep; the darned itching is annoying me to no end. I'm not certain where that fits in with my flu theory but I am feeling too sick and tired to think about it. Once I fall asleep it seems to only last a few seconds before the cramping and vomiting begin again. I grab the basket and throw up the water I drank into it and then continue to violently retch after that. I feel my bowels preparing to let loose and I stumble out of bed, scrambling for the bathroom but I don't make it only a foot or so away from the toilet. Not only do I feel absolutely wretched but now I have the humiliation of having soiled myself as well. All of my symptoms are back with a vengeance along with something new and unexpected—lingual and circumoral paresthesias, or in layman's terms, my mouth, tongue and lips feel like they are on fire.

I pull myself up to my feet and nearly make it to the sink to begin cleaning myself and the bathroom floor when a wave of vertigo unlike any I have ever experienced before in my life hits me. I try to hang on to the sink for support but end up on the floor, landing on my ruined thigh and bringing down the glass soap dispenser which shatters on the tile. I scream out involuntarily from the excruciating pain that it sends through my thigh and up my hip to my spine. I'm sweating heavily and I'm not certain if it's from the sickness or the agony, and at that moment it doesn't really matter to me. It's hard to breathe, my heart is racing, I feel like I'm going to heave again and I am close to crying. I jump as the bathroom door suddenly opens and Wilson races into the room. He stops short when he sees me lying on the floor in a dirty, shaking, miserable heap.

"House!" he cries and is immediately at my side. I forget about my humiliation, wanting for nothing else than for Wilson to make it all go away.

"This," I say, gasping for a full breath, "is not the flu." I feel him grab me as if to help me up but then everything spins again and I black out.

**To Be Continued….**


	2. Chapter 2 Part II

**My Foe**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

_**A/N: **_Here is the second part to My Foe. This story will only have three parts, but there may be further stories submitted in the future following the "My" theme.

**Warning: **This story involves adult issues that involve illness, adult issues and strong language. Reader Discretion is advised.

* * *

**Part II**

_Most of what happened between the time I passed out in my bathroom and I became lucid and aware in the Emergency Room of PPTH I don't remember. All I have to go on is what I've been told by those who were present, most notably Wilson and Chase and the odd flash of memory that occurs to me from time to time which I can't confirm was accurate or figments of my neurological breakdown. What follows is a synthesis of what I have been able to compile from these and other sources._

My best friend and roommate Dr. James Wilson finds me collapsed in a heap on the tile floor of my bathroom. I have just finished being sick with vomiting and diarrhea both of which I am soiled with. My body is dripping with sweat, my graying chestnut hair is pasted to my scalp with it. I'm trembling uncontrollably from head to toe, and moaning after I've knocked a glass soap dispenser to the floor with a shattering crash and have collapsed in vertigo on my ruined leg, releasing a bloodcurdling scream of agony. My mouth is full of saliva which I'm drooling all over the floor; my breathing is labored and I appear to be nearly oblivious to the fact that he has come to my rescue and is down on his haunches next to me, trying to help me up when I pass out.

Just before I fall unconscious I tell Wilson, "This is not the flu!" Flu had been my self-diagnosis when I first became ill at work earlier in the day—obviously I was wrong. Pruritus (itching) and paresthesias (burning, painful pins and needles) of my lips, mouth and tongue are not your typical symptoms of Influenza; neither is vertigo and excessive sweating unless a high fever is present which Wilson says was not the case. It was something else, something more acute and serious with which I was afflicted.

After I pass out Wilson does what has been drilled into him through years of training and experience and checks my airway, my heart and looks for any obvious serious injuries. I'm still having difficulty breathing and my heart is racing—a hundred and forty beats per minute—with arrhythmia. My skin is clammy, my pallor a sickly pale greenish grey. Fearing that I'm dying he hurries to the nearest telephone and calls for an ambulance and then calls ahead to the hospital to let them know that we are on our way in. When he returns to my side I'm semi-conscious and murmuring things that are only partially intelligible but I'm still oblivious to the fact that he is there with me. I'm complaining about the burning, how much it hurts, how much my mouth hurts and something about my mother which Wilson tells me he doesn't understand.

He tilts my head to the side so that I don't drown on my own drool or vomit should that start up again. There is absolutely no tension in my body anywhere, no resistance, no muscle tone which also worries my friend. At one point I think I recall him placing his hand on my head and whispering something but I don't remember what it was that he said. I fall into deeper unconsciousness again. Soon after I stop breathing and Wilson has to perform Artificial Respiration.

The ambulance arrives after what Wilson describes as an 'eternity' and the paramedic begins to bag me, giving Wilson a break and a chance to catch his breath. Riding along Wilson allows the ambulance crew to do their jobs but holds my hand throughout, ready to act should I crash on route. When the ambulance arrives at the hospital an Emergency Room crew is waiting for us to take over my care from the paramedic team. Also waiting is Dr. Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine and the woman I have loved consciously and subconsciously for twenty years, the woman who rejected me and wounded me more than she ever possibly could have known. The significance of the fact that she has returned to the hospital during her private hours with Lucas and her baby daughter Rachel is lost on me for a very long time after.

The ER staffers have difficulty stabilizing me. My heart rate is too fast and erratic; my blood pressure is in the toilet. I am terribly dehydrated and they stick me with an IV and pump isotonic saline into my vein as quickly as it will go. At one point my heart begins to fibrillate and then seizes completely and I have to be pumped full of epinephrine and shocked twice for it to start and return to an acceptable rhythm again. Eventually I'm stabilized as well as is possible and taken to ICU while test after test is taken and processed. Standard blood and urinalysis labs come back inconclusive or clean. Mild elevation in my creatine phosphokinase (CPK) and lactate dehydrogenase (LDL) levels indicate the possibility of muscle tissue breakdown but nothing of any real significance. I have been intubated to aid with my breathing and I remain, for the most part, in a deep unconscious state.

Cuddy calls in my team around midnight to take on my case. Both she and Wilson are part of the differential as they try to breakdown the possibilities of what I could be suffering from based on the symptoms. Chase, Thirteen, Taub and Foreman sit around the long conference table while Cuddy sits where I usually do at the end when I'm not up at the white board. Wilson has replaced me there with the dry erase marker in hand. He writes down my symptoms in the order which they presented themselves: nausea, headache, irritability, abdominal cramping, profuse sweating, vomiting, diarrhea, tremors, weakness, chills, complaints of generalized myalgia (muscle pain)and arthralgia (joint pain), possible pruritus (Wilson noticed my scratching at my arms and legs), ataxia (loss of coordination), semiconscious comments of lingual and circumoral paresthesias, excessive salivation, hallucinations, decreased levels of consciousness, bradycardia (rapid heartbeat), dyspnea (labored breathing) followed by pulmonary depression and finally cardiovascular failure.

The suggestions begin to fly around the table: septic shock, ischemic stroke, snake envenomations (snake venom poisoning—despite the fact that there is no evidence that I've even been around a snake), and a slew of different possible toxicities (poisonings) including heavy metals (arsenic, lithium, mercury), Beta-blocker, calcium-channel, Carbomazepine, disulfram and Isoniazid, organophosphates and Carbamate poisoning, and various mushroom related poisonings, and finally food poisonings including botulism and marine (fish, shellfish or seafood)poisoning.

Chase argues against heavy metals stating that standard tox screens have ruled them out. He also counters beta-and Calcium channel blockers for the same reason. Foreman suggests a CT scan of my head to rule out the possibility of stroke or tumor. Wilson points out that lithium is not one of the psych meds I'm on (I hate the fact that he had to mention to my team that I'm on psych meds), that I don't take beta- and calcium-blockers, I won't touch a mushroom unless it's a magic mushroom and even those I've given up for my sobriety. He also points out that the closest I get to gardening products is the produce section of the local supermarket and even there only when he makes me pick up vegetables and fruit for something he is preparing.

"What about fish poisoning?" Thirteen suggests, "or seafood?"

Wilson turns from the board. "I haven't cooked anything with fish or seafood as ingredients in a while and I can't recall House eating anything out this weekend that wasn't a hamburger or fries."

The team agrees to test for the lesser common heavy metals and toxins and for common forms of food poisoning while treating my symptoms and keeping me as comfortable as possible. Also, Foreman gets his way and books me for a head CT. As the team disperses to their tasks, Wilson and Cuddy stick behind. Together they try to puzzle together where and to what I have been exposed. The tension between the two of them is great; Cuddy towards Wilson for not offering her the information concerning our appointment with Nolan and Wilson towards Cuddy for the past six months of her attitude and behavior around not only me but also towards him.

"There has to be something that happened that you're missing," the Dean of Medicine says to my best friend, almost accusatory.

"Yes, of course," Wilson retorts with annoyance, "because I don't live in the same loft with House and cook ninety per cent of the meals. I've only spent the past three days trying to hold him together…." He stops himself, realizing that he has probably said too much. He cringes and looks at the floor, hoping that she doesn't pick up on it—but of course she does.

"What do you mean by 'hold him together'?" Cuddy demands, a concerned frown crossing her face. "What happened?"

Wilson hums and haws as he is prone to do before he relents and spills the beans. "Your little tete a tete on Saturday…you know, the one where he asked you to come alone and you brought Lucas anyway? The one where he told you the one thing he finds the hardest to say to anyone? The one where you lead him on, kissing him back and then slapping him and running back to Lucas?"

Cuddy looks dumbstruck and shakes her head in disbelief. "He told you all of that?" she asks softly. Wilson glares at her without sympathy.

"You have no idea what that did to him," the oncologist tells her. "Look, if you don't return his feeling that's fine. That's your prerogative. But did you have to return his kiss? You led him on only to humiliate him! The Lisa Cuddy I used to know wouldn't have done that to him. I don't even know who you are anymore!"

She is quiet for a moment and her face becomes a blank slate and Wilson has no idea what she's thinking or feeling, if anything at all.

"What happened after we met?" she asks quietly, avoiding his gaze.

Hesitant to tell her everything, knowing that whatever he says is likely to make its way back to her miscreant boyfriend, Wilson hedges a bit. "He fell into a depression, one bad enough that Nolan called us in for a special session. I was there to be instructed on how best I can support him during this time. That's all you need to know—in fact, I've told you too much already."

"I didn't know it would affect him that strongly," Cuddy murmurs more to herself than to Wilson.

"How could you not have known?" Wilson demands in disbelief. "Do you think House goes around and tells people that he loves them every day? He can barely admit to himself that he has feelings at all! I spent the rest of the weekend watching him for fear he'd do something to self-destruct!"

Her eyes widen in alarm, "Like what, Wilson? You had to have had something in mind when you said that!"

"His sobriety was in jeopardy," he admits with his big mouth. "He didn't slip, really…but he could have and nearly did. So help me, Cuddy, if this conversation gets to Lucas or to anyone else, I will never speak to you again, do you understand me? You've hurt him enough."

"You think I would leave here and go running straight to Lucas with this?"she exclaims. How can you say that?"

Looking at her pointedly Wilson reminds her, "You told Lucas about his hallucinations, didn't you?"

The Dean of Medicine looks away from my best friend. She has no other choice but to admit her guilt, but rather than do just that she mumbles, "Lucas never meant to hurt House with that information. He would never intentionally hurt him—they were friends--."

"Bullshit!" Wilson nearly screams at her but then clenches his fists and looks at the floor, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. It takes him a minute but eventually he looks up at her. "Lucas has done nothing but try to hurt House from the day he was discovered in your suite at the medical convention. There are three reasons why you don't know that: one—House hasn't complained or allowed me to do so because he doesn't want to hurt you or create even more distance between the two of than that _you've_ created; two—you have been so cut off from your friends lately you have no idea of half of what is going on around this hospital and you don't appear to care to find out; and three—Lucas isn't going to tell you truth about anything because he is conning you, lady! He is not the stable, dependable, innocent good guy you seem to think he is—in fact, you're the only one in this hospital who sees him that way. Even staff here that have no use for House know what a low-life jerk your boyfriend really is!"

"How dare you!" Cuddy exclaims in fury, her grey-blue eyes blazing. "How dare you slander Lucas with nothing to back up your claims?"

Wilson shakes his head at her in dismay. A bitter smile cracks his face. "Are you really that dense? Are you telling me you haven't heard anything through the grapevine about the rotten things Lucas has done to House and me since we moved into the loft?"

Hands on hips, Cuddy shakes her head. She is indignant. "I don't know what you are talking about? What things?"

My friend the oncologist hesitates, appraising her for a moment. Once he is convinced that her ignorance isn't some kind of elaborate hoax he debates whether or not to tell her about that which I have shied away from telling her myself. He decides to do so. He pulls out a chair from the table for her.

"Sit down," he tells her as opposed to asking her, "and get comfortable, because there's a lot to tell."

With a sigh of frustration she takes a seat and Wilson sits down at the table opposite of her.

"A few weeks ago someone started pranking House and I at the loft," he begins, "except that these weren't your average harmless pranks. First someone put an opossum in my bathtub. Those things are incredibly vicious. I had to hire someone to come in and capture it—but not before it cost a couple hundred dollars in damage. I thought it had been House who did it because of an argument we had concerning my bath tub but it wasn't. Next someone loosened a safety bar that had been installed by said bathtub to make it easier and safer for House to get out of the bath. House was using the tub and pulled on it to get out when it gave way and he went flying backwards. He could have been _killed_ you know? He was lucky that he only was cut on the face by the bar. After that, someone rigged the sprinkler system in the loft to go off in the middle of the night, causing thousands of dollars in water and property damage. Even after that we didn't suspect Lucas until the lowlife tripped House in the hospital cafeteria and set him flying to the floor. Then Lucas stood up in front a dozen witnesses and admitted to tripping House and pulling all of those pranks as payback for our buying the loft out from under you—which, by the way, was _my_ idea and _my_ doing—House had absolutely nothing to do with it! He also did it to mark you as his territory and to threaten House to back off and leave you and him alone."

"That's ridiculous!" The Dean of Medicine begins to protest, even though the expression on her face is one of horror, not disbelief. Wilson doesn't allow her to finish.

"I knew you wouldn't believe me and so did House, that's why he didn't bother to tell you or file criminal charges which he had every right to do," the oncologist tells her. "That and the fact that he didn't want to hurt you because he genuinely wants you to be happy, even if that means you're with Lucas instead of him. I was going to press charges for felony property damage but House asked me not to. He hasn't even retaliated with pranks of his own—do you know why?"

When Cuddy didn't answer Wilson tells her anyway. "_Because he really has changed!_ It's not an act, or fluke. It's not superficial, either. He's no saint and he's still pretty much of a jerk, but he's trying and succeeding. To retaliate he would have to _stoop_ to Lucas' level. If you don't believe me I can give you the names of no less than six people who were in the cafeteria that day and offered to testify on House's behalf should he decide to press criminal or civil charges. If that's still not enough for you, check the security camera records—I'm sure they're still stored somewhere in the hospital system. A picture really is worth a thousand words. _Think_ about it, Cuddy! If Lucas had been the recipient of even one of those pranks from House you would have known about it immediately, because Lucas doesn't care about you or your feelings—he just cares about Lucas." Wilson took a breath. "I wouldn't be surprised if he was the one who made certain you didn't get my message yesterday morning, but I can't prove that—yet."

Cuddy says nothing. She has no argument, no protest. Her face is a carefully crafted mask of impassivity. The only evidence of her emotional turmoil inside is the stiff set of her jaw and the mist in her eyes. Wilson expects her to say something in response to his revelation-slash-tirade but she doesn't. Instead she rises gracefully to her feet and pushes her chair in before striding quickly and confidently out of the conference room. Wilson has no idea what to think about her reaction and decides to put it out of his mind for the time being.

Because he has surgery the next morning, my best friend makes the tough decision to go home for a few hours to get some sleep. After checking in on me--I'm still unconscious but my vitals are a good deal better than they were even an hour before—he drives home, leaving instructions to be notified the moment something in my status changes; he has my medical proxy—they would contact him anyway. As soon as he arrives at home he heads straight to bed, completely exhausted.

* * *

Over night my treatment is largely supportive and symptom driven. My respiratory depression continues and I remain intubated and on a respirator. My bradyarrythmias respond well to the atropine I'm given, as does the myalgia and arthralgias with a cocktail of acetaminophen/parecetamol and Indomethacin. Neurologically, however, I am not doing well and before dawn slip into a coma. The CT scan of my head shows no sign of a tumor, aneurysm, bleed, blockage or inflammation to explain my condition. Labs on atypical heavy metal toxicity come back negative as do those checking for organophosphates and Carbamate toxins. As far as the various forms of food poisoning are concerned the labs haven't returned. The best the team can do is continue to treat my symptoms, fight to keep me stabilized, and keep working at the puzzle.

Sometime around one a.m. Cuddy enters my ICU cubicle and sits with me for about an hour until she is paged and leaves quickly without a word to anyone.

* * *

Wilson is awakened around five thirty in the morning with the news that I have entered a coma with no conclusive results on any of the labs that have come in so far. Unable to sleep after that news, he gets up, showers, dresses and heads to the kitchen for a quick bite before heading back to PPTH. He skips making coffee and grabs a bowl of cereal instead—some bland multigrain mixture that I won't touch with a ten-foot pole. He goes to the fridge to grab the carton of milk. His eyes fall on the partial six pack of beer; he notices two things: one, that he forgot to get rid of the booze in the house immediately after arriving home yesterday and two, that there is one less bottle than before and he hasn't had any beer in the past two days.

Sighing in disappointment, he grabs the milk and closes the fridge door and checks the recycle bin under the sink and finds an extra empty bottle.

"God, House," he whispers to himself, and instantly feels guilty. He knows that I'm an alcoholic who has been drinking recently so while he is disappointed that I snuck a beer after we returned home from seeing Nolan, he blames himself for neglecting to do as he promised and chucking the booze as soon as he could. Later, when he tells me about this I tell him that I am responsible for my own behavior whether or not the alcohol is around.

He takes the milk and bowl of cereal to the table, grabs a spoon from a drawer and then sits down. He pours the milk over the cereal and then scoops up a spoonful and puts it into his mouth. Immediately he tastes something odd and spits the mouthful out back into the bowl, making a face. He gets up and goes to the sink, grabbing a glass of water and rinsing his mouth out. He tries to identify what it is about the milk that tastes off and that's when he remembers what I told him the day before at lunch. I told him that the milk tasted fishy and warned him not to drink it. It begins to dawn on him what is wrong with me. He grabs the milk carton and hurries to the door; grabbing his coat and car keys, he and the milk head to his car.

Traffic is still fairly light so early in the morning; the morning rush hasn't quite started and he makes record time getting to the hospital. Along the way he calls ahead to Chase and tells the younger doctor what he thinks I may be suffering from. He parks in my disabled stall and puts the placard in the window; since I ride with him to and from the hospital more often than I don't, he parks closer this way so I don't have to walk any further than I have to with my bad leg. At a run he enters the hospital and heads directly with the milk to the lab where my Aussie Fellow is waiting for him to run the tests to determine whether Wilson's theory is true. While waiting for the results he heads to ICU to sit with me for a while before he has to prep for the surgery he has to perform that morning.

As he sits there Wilson thinks about how many times in the past he had found himself doing the exact same thing he is now. Each of those times he had feared that this time would be the time I wouldn't make it. Last night he felt the same way, wondering if I'd ever wake up again and if I did what I would wake up to. What permanent damage would I have done to myself this time (I regret every moment of grief I have caused him in the past; knowing now the kind of grief and guilt he felt after Amber's death and my coma following the DBS doesn't mitigate it. What that knowledge does, however, is reassure me that he didn't abandon me out of hatred for me). Sitting here now, he has hope, however slim it may be that I will survive this as I have the other events in the past.

Word doesn't arrive before my best friend is forced to leave me to prep for surgery. Results don't come back until he is in the operating theater in the middle of the procedure. A nurse comes into the OR and says simply that Dr. Chase says to tell him it's Ciguatera. Wilson sighes and smiles behind his mask. He gives the messenger a nod of acknowledgement. It is now known what is wrong with me and although there isn't some magical antidote to the fish toxin wreaking horror with my gastrointestinal, cardiovascular and neurological systems they do now the best way to help me pull through until the toxin has made it through and been eliminated from my body.

Ciguatera poisoning is caused by ciguatoxins produced by _Gambierdiscus toxicus_ , a species of dinoflagellates (algae) eaten by sea fish that live in and around coral reefs that include those found in and around Hawaii, Guam, other South Pacific islands, the U.S Virgin Islands and Puerto Rico in the Atlantic. With the advent of lightning fast shipping and advanced preservation techniques has come the availability of more exotic sea fish to areas of the world that at one time had limited to no access of the varieties that feed upon G. toxicus and then pass the toxin up the food chain. Fish like the Barracuda, grouper, sea bass, mullet, and snapper are the most prone to carrying the Ciguatoxins, particularly the more mature, larger fish that are the preference of fishermen. Fish carrying high enough concentrations of the toxin can cause the illness I am experiencing in human beings. Usually the symptoms experienced are milder than I am experiencing but I happen to be among the minority that reacts strongly to the toxin.

The question is how that toxin ended up in the carton of milk in Wilson's and my refrigerator. Since tropical reef fish and domesticated milk cows do not share the same environment and food in common, and there are no dairy farms that I have ever heard of that process fish alongside milk, the carton was contaminated somewhere after the processing and packaging. Since there have been no other reports of individuals coming down with ciguatera poisoning in the Princeton region, chances are our particular carton was tainted somewhere and sometime after it was purchased at the grocery store and brought to the loft. In other words, someone somehow deliberately poisoned our milk with toxic fish effluent obtained from God knows where.

So, who has the motive and means to do such a thing? Those are the questions I hear being discussed by two male voices as I begin to emerge from my coma and through the layers of unconsciousness, pausing at the level of consciousness just above unconsciousness and just below wakefulness. I can hear the speakers, I know who they are, but I am passive, unable to formulate my own ideas, unable to let them know that I was nearly awake.

"Who would want to do such a thing to House?"

"I have a pretty good idea, but I have no way to prove it."

"Who?"

"This stays in here?"

"Yeah, sure."

"I'm willing to bet it was Lucas Douglas."

"Cuddy's boyfriend? The guy House hired to spy on his team?"

"That's the maggot."

"Obviously there's no love lost between you and Lucas."

"There's a good reason for that. The man is an evil, conniving manipulator and a con artist extraordinaire who's had it out for House since he came back from Mayfield."

"How do you mean?"

"Did you hear about House being tripped in the cafeteria a few weeks ago?"

"Who hasn't…wait, that was Lucas?"

"It was. I know because I was standing there when it happened. Witnesses were everywhere and a security camera was aimed right where it took place. He didn't even try to hide the fact. He proudly proclaimed it for everyone around to hear. He was asserting that Cuddy is his territory and House was to back off or face further demonstrations of his 'superiority'. Little pissant!"

"Why hasn't House filed charges against him?"

"It's complicated."

"You mean Cuddy?"

"Exactly."

"Cuddy can't retaliate if it can be proven--."

"It's not that."

"Then why?"

"…"

"You mean, House is interested in Cuddy?"

"That surprises you?"

"Nah. The sexual tension between the two of them has been blatant for years. Then there was that incident in the lobby last spring."

"Yes, well, House wasn't exactly doing so well then."

"I didn't mean anything derogatory by bringing it up."

"I know."

"But still, he should say something."

"He doesn't want to hurt her. Despite popular belief, House isn't a completely unfeeling bastard."

"I know."

"You do?"

"Well, since this is just between you and I…since Allison left, well, I haven't been dealing with it well. I've become pretty well acquainted with the bottom of a liquor bottle. House caught me alone in the elevator once and in his unique way showed his concern by telling me to see someone about it."

"You mean a therapist?"

"Yeah. He checked up on me a couple of times to see if I'd done it."

"Seriously? Wow. Have you?"

"Nah, not my style. He cloaked it in sarcasm and a threat but I got the impression that he really was concerned about me."

"Thanks for telling me."

"Yeah, well, whatever…Come to think of it, not long before Allison left I got a visit from Lucas. He was hanging around the doctor's lounge. He was encouraging me to fix things with my wife because somehow that would be good for the hospital which would be for Cuddy and somehow House was part of it. I got this bad feeling about him…like he was plotting something."

"I'm sure he was. What I didn't tell you was that his tripping House was the culmination of a series of pranks one of which came damned close to killing him. Each time Lucas had to break into the loft to carry them out. We changed the locks and I called to have a security system installed but they screwed up and now they don't come until Thursday. It wouldn't be such a stretch for Lucas to have broken into the loft again to taint the milk."

"Is he that insecure about how Cuddy feels about him that he'd be willing to risk killing House? Because he came damned close to doing that."

"I don't know…maybe he's just an idiot who's too stupid to know how dangerous his behavior is. It's all moot, really. I have no evidence that he did it, just a suspicion. Yesterday House told me that Lucas can't be beaten by direct onslaught, he has to be tricked into destroying himself."

"Makes sense. So…what's the plan?"

"The plan?"

"Yeah. How do we get Lucas to expose himself as the snake in the grass that he is?"

" 'We'? Does that mean you're willing to help?"

"What else do I have to do with my free time except drink? We'll call it therapy."

"Sounds good to me!" (Laughter) "I wish we could ask General House there what to do. If anyone knows how to plot an operation like this, it's him."

"Oh yeah!"

As I'm listening I am continuing to wake up and somewhere in my sleeping consciousness I understand what they are saying and now I'm trying to wake up. The heart monitor above my head begins to show this as my pulse rate begins to increase, slowly at first but growing.

"Wilson, I think he's trying to wake up," Chase says.

I open my eyes slowly; they move from the back of my head to look blearily up at the silhouette standing right above me. I can feel the lenses of my eyes work at focusing.

"House?" Wilson says softly, giving me a lopsided smile. "Hey, welcome back!"

Without thinking clearly I try to talk and begin to choke on the breathing tube down my throat. I begin to panic, unable to remind myself of what is really happening.

"Easy, House!" Wilson tells me. "You're intubated! Relax! I'll take it out, okay? As I pull it out just keep swallowing, remember?" He skillfully pulls the tube out as I swallow as instructed. I cough a little after. Almost immediately Wilson grabs an air mask, connects it to oxygen and places it over my mouth and nose. "You have to wear this…I'm still concerned about your sats."

"What's…diagnosis?" I ask in a weak murmur, still unable to focus.

"Ciguatera poisoning," the oncologist tells me. "You contracted it from the milk you drank at lunch yesterday. Do you remember?"

I can't remember much of anything for the next day or so. "No…Milk?"

"Yesterday you had milk with lunch back at the loft," Wilson tells me patiently. His face is still contorted with concern. "You said it tasted like fish but I didn't think anything about it until the team started to look into various toxicities including food poisonings. I went home to get some sleep and for breakfast I went to have some cereal and tasted the fish in the milk so we tested it. Someone tainted it after we bought it and brought it home."

"You sick?" I ask after hearing him say he consumed the milk. Things aren't computing exactly right in my brain.

"No," my best friend assures me with a small smile. "I spat it out before swallowing. I'm feeling fine."

I smile, unable to pre-think my actions and keep my feelings of relief to myself. In better health I would not be so obvious. "Lucas?" I ask. I see Chase appear in my visual field. He appears relieved as he looks down at me.

"Can't prove it," Wilson answers grimly, "but yeah. That's who I think did this."

Somewhere in my poisoned brain I think the same thing. "Need to prove," I tell him. "Plan."

"We were just talking about that," Chase tells me. "Any ideas?"

I try to think but as I said, my brain is too scrambled to come up with anything more than, "Have him…prank in front…Cuddy."

"You're not up to another one of his 'pranks', House," Wilson argues, frowning and shaking his head at me in negation.

"No," I say, shaking my head slightly. I'm feeling winded. My O₂ sats have to be dropping without the tube in, in spite of the oxygen mask. "You prank. Frame Lucas. Past pranks…back you up. Call cops—milk, too. Check his trunk… for fish…."

I see Wilson glance at the pulse oximeter display. "House, you need to stop talking now, okay? Your O₂ saturation is down to eighty-six and we'll have to intubate you again if it doesn't rise over ninety again."

I nod, and feel myself fading again. "It will work." I can't stay awake any longer and fall asleep.

Once I'm out, Wilson and Chase look at each and shrug. "What do you think?" Chase asks the oncologist. "Do we go for it?"

My best friend hangs his head for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck and then looks back at Chase with a broad grin crossing his face and making his brown eyes sparkle deviously.

"Hell yeah!" Wilson replies, laughing, extending his hand out to my Fellow. Chase grins, grabs his hand and they shake on it.

"Let the games begin!"

**To Be Continued….**


	3. Chapter 3 Part III

**My Foe**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

_**A/N: **_Here is the third part to My Foe. Since I'm long-winded, there will be a part IV but that's it! Thanks to all of you who have been faithfully reviewing!

**Warning: **This story involves adult issues that involve illness, adult issues and strong language. Reader Discretion is advised.

* * *

**Part III**

_I still wasn't fully aware enough to remember much of what Wilson and Chase's plan involved to frame Lucas for pranking in order to bring him down for the very real pranks, including poisoning me, that he had inflicted on Wilson and me. This is the full account as it was told to me after._

The ambulance bay doors crash open as paramedics rush the stretcher with their charge on it into the Emergency Room of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. They are met by the swing shift team of doctors and nurses manning the department who take custody of the patient as the lead paramedic tells them important info that they'll need to know immediately to treat the critically ill man.

"Male Caucasian, forty to forty-five years of age involved in single vehicle collision," the Paramedic says quickly and efficiently, "According to a witness on the scene the victim appeared to pass out behind the wheel of his car, veered off the road and down a twelve foot embankment into a ditch filled with water. Patient was unconscious and unresponsive with possible head trauma, no apparent lacerations or contusions. B.P. ninety-five over fifty-eight, heartbeat one-fifty-one, shallow respiration. Given one unit saline full-bore enroute. I.D. in wallet says his name is Dr. James Wilson."

The patient is lifted off of the ambulance stretcher onto a treatment bed and the paramedics reclaim their transport and return to their bus to fill out the paperwork. Meanwhile the ER attending orders head and neck x-rays, CBC and whole blood count, common tox screen and drug screen as his team hooks wires to the man's leads, clips a pulse oximeter onto one of his index fingers, and wraps a cuff around his arm. Monitors come to life, displaying his ECG, pulse rate, blood pressure and O₂ saturation level and respiration. After protecting his airway an oxygen mask is placed over his mouth and nose. His clothes are cut off of him by a nurse very proficient with a pair of utility scissors and a visual inspection of his body is made to make certain there are no injuries left unidentified.

The ER charge nurse takes possession of the patient's wallet, watch and other personal items that were on him to document and stick them into a large manila envelope to be store safely in the Hospital's safe for the patient. As soon as she notices the name of the patient she immediately contacts the office of the Dean of Medicine. Dr. Lisa Cuddy is still at the hospital working late when she receives word that her Head of Oncology has been brought into the ER unconscious and in critical condition.

Cuddy drops her pen onto the half-finished form she is completing and hurries out of her office, through the Clinic and down the passageway to the ER. There is a look of worry on her brow but otherwise she maintains the stoic image of a perfect hospital administrator. On the inside, however, her stomach is doing flip-flops; first Dr. Gregory House, PPTH's Head of Diagnostic Medicine falls ill from an unknown ailment which turns out to be Ciguatera poisoning, of all things and now Wilson is brought in by ambulance from a car accident caused by him passing out while at the wheel. The thought occurs to her that the oncologist could possibly be suffering from the same kind of poisoning as his best friend; they live together in the Loft and often eat together.

House's bout nearly cost him his life and she is concerned Wilson could be facing the same battle. That is only part of her concern; Wilson was also in an accident and could have any range of injuries depending on how bad it ended up being.

Once she reaches the ER she finds out from the charge nurse what room Wilson has been taken to: Trauma room one. The ER team is busy tending to him when she arrives; knowing better than to interfere with the highly trained team while they are at work she stands off to the side where she can still see what is happening but is out of the way. It worries the Dean of Medicine that Wilson is unconscious and his vital signs are not good at all. His heart rhythm is good, but it is beating way too fast for comfort; at the same time he is hypotensive and he is on oxygen to keep his o₂ sats up.

A portable X-ray machine is brought into the crowded room and all unnecessary staff for that moment vacate the room. Cuddy watches as they take films of his head and neck; she looks to see if she can spot any head or neck trauma to warrant the shots but can't see well enough past the X-ray techs to get a good enough look. She is encouraged by the fact that while his vitals aren't good, they have stabilized, at least for the time being.

The Dean of Medicine takes the opportunity during the X-rays to stop the attending ER doctor for an update.

"He doesn't appear to have any serious injuries from the car accident," the attending tells her, "But we're taking the films to be on the safe side—otherwise he has a minor laceration on his forehead and a few minor contusions mostly where his seatbelt made contact with his body upon impact. As you can see he's shocky; his BP dropped after arriving here but has stabilized; he's still hypotensive and tachycardic. I suspect that he may be suffering from some kind of toxicity; we're running standard labs. He'll probably be taken to ICU pending the outcome of the labs."

Cuddy tells him about House and his diagnosis of Ciguatera poisoning, being certain to mention that they are roommates and there may be a link. She then tells him that the Diagnostics department will be adopting Wilson's case once the ER department has signed off on it. The X-ray techs finish up and leave with their equipment to go process the films. Taking over again, ER staffers finish up what they can and prep Wilson for transfer to intensive care. Before he is taken away, Cuddy approaches his bedside. He looks pale; two slightly bushy dark brown eyebrows seem to jump out against the blanched color of his skin. A dressing covers the cut on his forehead. The fact that he still hasn't come to yet causes her anxiety, but she suppresses any possible display of that on her features; she is the hospital's chief administrator and she has a responsibility to her staff to behave in a professional way at all times, even when the patient just happens to be one of her best friends.

She regrets at that moment that there has been an estrangement between her and her 'Boys', but she's not prepared to accept the blame for that; she made mistakes in the way she allowed House to find out about her relationship with Lucas but she has been nothing but upfront about the fact that there will never be anything between House and her. The kiss she had reciprocated when she met the diagnostician in the downtown park to talk was an aberration. She hadn't meant to respond and thereby given him any false hope; it had been nothing more than an automatic physical response. She had never denied that there was chemistry the existed between House and her…but that's all it is. That's all it can be allowed to be, and she refuses to entertain the idea of anything more.

She has the life she wants. Sure, there isn't the spark between Lucas and her as there is between House and her; House is an accelerant-fueled blaze that burns hot and fast and is all-consuming for as long as it lasts, but as quickly as the fire is set alight it fizzles to next to nothing as the reality of their incompatibility douses the heat. Lucas however, is a slow burning flame with hot, glowing embers that warms and sustains and gives comfort and security. It's a warmth that will stick around and continue to warm up not only her but her daughter for the long-run without her getting burned and then left alone in the cold.

As much as she wants to be close to her two friends and employees, House and Wilson will have to be the ones to accept the situation—and Lucas—if she and they are going to maintain even a little bit of the same trust and camaraderie as they had before…before the bus accident, before House woke up to find her sitting vigil and got the idea that there could ever be anything more than friendship between the two of them. So why is it she feels like she is constantly trying to convince herself of this fact? Why does it seem that no matter what the situation, so long as it involves the diagnostician her mind keeps returning to that place where the blazing fire seems so damned appealing after what feels like an eternity of 'basking' at room temperature?

She is distracted from her thoughts when the orderlies arrive to assist a nurse in transferring Wilson to his assigned room in ICU, right next door to his best friend's. She mumbles an apology for standing in their way and backs up to allow them to push the stretcher past her. A large part of her wants to check on House, just to see how he is coming along in his recovery as any administrator would check on a member of her senior staff; deciding that it was probably not in the diagnostician's nor her best interest, she decides instead to check with Foreman when she presents Wilson's file to the team.

* * *

Dr. Robert Chase and two nurses are waiting to greet the stretcher when it arrives at the ICU bearing the unconscious James Wilson. The oncologist is transferred over to the unit bed and hooked up quickly to the monitors, oxygen source and IV pump before the orderlies and nurse leave with the stretcher. The Fellow waits until the nurses leave the room before setting to work, carefully following the directions his IT specialist friend gave him. He grabs the laptop computer he has stashed away behind the small nurse's desk that was neatly tucked to one corner of the room. With it is a small panel that resembles an audio sound board that is approximately eight by tens inches in size. He is uncertain exactly how the process works or exactly what the panel does despite the fact that his friend had tried to explain it to him the night before. The Australian-born and bred doctor hadn't paid a lot of attention; so long as he knows how to set it up and get it functioning, that's all he needs to know.

The concept is quite simple; the monitors and sensors that measure the oncologist's vital signs are about to be transferred to the panel interface that is wirelessly controlled by a program on the laptop which will simulate whatever readings they want the monitoring instruments to display. So long as the laptop with the required programming software is within seventy-five feet of the panel at all times he will be able to run any scenario at the press of a button. He could keep the laptop hidden behind the desk and take it out—inconspicuously, of course—when he needs to adjust Wilson's 'condition'. According to his friend, who is an associate professor at Princeton, the software he is using is state of the art, still under trials but very soon it will be available to medical schools across the country for simulation training. So long as Chase keeps his mouth shut about where he got it and promises to enter the security code embedded in the software should he be discovered, he gets to try it out first in a most interesting situation.

Of course, this isn't fool proof; it requires the cooperation of a few key individuals hand-picked by Wilson and Chase to help carry out the charade. They require someone in the ER, someone in the lab to switch result printouts and records before they reach any probing eyes, someone on the team to run interference and help Chase should he find himself unable to get to the laptop, and a trio of nurses in ICU (two of whom had huge crushes on Wilson and are willing to do anything to capture his attention) to carry it all off. It is highly likely something will go wrong and cause the whole operation crashing down around them, crushing Wilson and him in the process. If it works, however, it will not only be a prank of epic greatness that would impress the master himself (who happens to be in the neighboring room at this very moment) but will see Lucas Douglas face the punishment he deserves for nearly killing House, as well as the other rotten pranks he has pulled in the past.

After setting everything up as he has been instructed Chase brings up the program on the laptop and adjusting the different values to where he wants them, starts the program running. There is a barely perceptible flicker in the monitors but then the readouts begin to worsen ever so slightly, just as he had imputed. He smiles broadly and then shuts the laptop as much as he can without it shutting down, plugs in the short power cord, slides it carefully behind the desk with no room to spare and then plugs it into the wall. Backing away he wanders around the small room and checks to see from several angles whether or not the laptop and panel are visible; standing on the left side of the bed looking towards the foot of it a tiny sliver of the control panel is visible but that is only because he knows where it is and is looking for it. It is highly unlikely it will be discovered.

The medical deception is the easiest part of the con. Setting up the car accident to look real without destroying Wilson's Volvo and seriously injuring the oncologist took a little work. First, Wilson and he had to find a junk car that was still operational but wasn't worth a plug nickel to crash; they purchased an old Honda from a wrecker for five hundred dollars to serve that purchase. They had hoped that no one would stop to question why a successful oncologist was driving a beat up old junkmobile. So far so good.

Next was the part that took the longest—they had to spend a whole day in the countryside surrounding Princeton working out exactly how Wilson would 'pass out' and drive the car into a ditch without actually getting hurt. It was not without its crazy moments and at one point Wilson nearly backed out of the whole thing. In the end they worked out the wrinkles to the point where the older doctor was willing to go ahead with it after all. After 'passing out', Wilson already had the car going no more than ten miles per hour when he drove it into the ditch, slamming the brakes once the front end went over the edge. By the look of the cut on his forehead and bruising on his body he hit the bottom a little harder than they had hoped, but unless the head film came back with evidence of more serious damage he came out of the stunt quite well. As soon as the car was at rest Wilson grabbed a syringe he had stowed in the glove compartment and injected himself with the strong cocktail of drugs that were supposed to simulate the symptoms they wanted and then, before passing out, threw the syringe away out the window as far as he could. The drugs acted quickly enough to put him out before the first Samaritan could come to his aid.

Next comes Chase's job of planting evidence in Lucas' car without getting caught. That not only requires ascertaining where the said car will be when he needs to do it but learning how to break into a locked car without setting off an anti-theft alarm. To that end, Chase made a copy of his car key and then 'accidentally' locked it in his car. He then enlisted Dr. Eric Foreman to show him how to break into his car with as little damage (evidence) as possible. Foreman was not impressed with having to show him; when he was a kid he'd learned the trick and with his brother stole a car and went on a joyride, getting caught by the police and earning himself an arrest record for Grand Theft Auto that ended up haunting him when House discovered this little embarrassing secret and used it (still uses) to humiliate and irritate him mercilessly. If word got out that he was actually training Chase how to do it he would never live it down; the Chief of Diagnostic Medicine would make certain of that. The Australian doctor hopes he can remember what Foreman showed him when the time comes to do it on his own.

Just as Chase is about to head to the differential room he notices Wilson beginning to stir. The drug cocktail is wearing off. From out of his lab coat Chase pulls out a prefilled syringe and goes to the oncologist. Squeezing out a tiny bit of the drug to ensure he doesn't inject a lethal air bubble into him, the Fellow injects it into the PICC line. This should keep Wilson out for another three hours, at least. Satisfied, he leaves Wilson's room. After a quick check at how House is doing, he heads towards the elevators, stopping briefly to give his nurse co-conspirator a pre-assigned signal. It is so ridiculously cloak and dagger that he has difficulty not cracking up at the wink she gives him in return.

He loves every moment of this!

* * *

House's team meets with Cuddy to discuss Wilson's case and when the lab results come back they indicate that the oncologist has been poisoned with the same Ciguatoxin House has. Chase and Dr. Chris Taub are sent to the Loft to 'investigate' whether the source of the toxin is somewhere there while Thirteen begins treatment and Foreman, of course relishing his opportunity to command, even if it is temporary, supervises. The two male Fellows take samples of everything edible in the condo to bring back to the hospital to be tested.

Chase is glad that one of his co-conspirators is back at the hospital making certain than Wilson is receiving the 'treatment' that he requires.

* * *

I wake up to find Thirteen standing by my bed, adjusting the flow rate on my IV pump. At this point I am not aware of the plot cooked up by my best friend and my Aussie Fellow and I have no memory of the brief conversation I had with them two days before. The Ciguatoxin is playing havoc with my brain and nervous system and I am experiencing short-term memory loss as one of the symptoms.

She smiles down at me pleasantly when she notices that I am awake. I am not intubated again but I wear a nasal cannula to supplement my O₂ intake so that my sats doesn't drop as it did before.

"Thirteen," I croak; my mouth and throat feel like they are stuffed with cotton balls. "Thirsty."

"How is your nausea?" she asks me. I shrug imperceptibly; I feel a great deal better than I did the day I ingested the toxin and tell her so. Upon hearing that she raises the head of my bed.

"I'll go get you a glass of water," she tells me and then leaves my room to fetch it. I look around me a little, this being the first time since I passed out in the bathroom that my vision isn't doubled. The room next to mine to the left is empty. I look to my right at the neighboring room on that side and then do a double-take when I realize who the patient in that bed is. Wilson. _My Wilson_. Not remembering that he told me that he hadn't drank the milk and was not sick, I become deeply concerned and I feel the need to get to his bedside as quickly as I can. I pull my IV out of my arm and with great effort I manage to sit right up and slowly move my legs to hang over the edge of the bed. A wave of vertigo hits me and I shut my eyes tightly against it, waiting for it to pass. Once it does, I tear off the leads and the wires attached to them, sending the monitors above my head and placed around me screaming out in alarm. For the first time in two days I notice the pain in my right thigh and grimace as I slowly slide off of the bed, placing weight on it. My legs feel like cooked spaghetti and I can barely keep my head up.

I begin to hobble sans cane towards the door, nearly collapsing twice but out of sheer force of will I stay on my feet. Somehow I get the door to my room open and hobble the couple of feet to Wilson's door. I lean heavily against the glass and look up at his monitors. I'm not thinking all that clearly but I can tell that that my best friend's vitals are poor. His oxygen sats is 87, his heart rate is racing at 159 beats per minute and his blood pressure has pretty much tanked. Where is my team? Why aren't they keeping closer watch over Wilson? Why isn't he intubated and breathing with assistance on a respirator with an oxygen sats reading like his? A mask alone isn't enough! Were they all idiots? I tell myself that they are going to be in supreme shit when I'm better. I notice the dressing on his forehead and a purple bruise on his left cheekbone. What happened to him?

I throw my weight behind the door and slide it open but as I try to step into the room I collapse to the floor. The room is spinning again and try as I might I can't find the strength in my arms to pick myself up. I hear voices and multiple hurried footsteps approaching and then Thirteen's reproach.

"House! What are you doing out of bed?" I feel myself being lifted off of the floor by two strong sets of hands and arms. Two large orderlies sling my arms over their shoulders and carry me back to my room. I'm too weak to put up a fight and they place me back into my bed like I'm a Raggedy Andy doll. Thirteen and a nurse begin to reattach everything to me.

"Wilson," I protest, feeling a little winded. "Poisoned…intubate him! Start treating!"

"We _are_ treating him," Thirteen tells me, frowning a little. "He's going to be fine. You need to stay in bed! You're not going to get any better trying to reenact 'The Great Escape!'"

I smirk at her angry glare. "That's a great movie," I tell her. "Has anyone ever told you you're hot when you're angry?"

"Well at least you haven't lost your lechery," she replies, rolling her eyes and shaking her head in dismay. "Now stay put or we'll put the restraints on!"

"You're heady with power over me," I accuse her. "I don't mind submitting if you promise you'll take advantage of me." I manage to waggle an eyebrow.

"Actually Foreman is the one in charge right now," Thirteen retorts. "I'll deliver your offer to him."

"Are you _trying_ to make me vomit again?" I ask her, making a sour face. She smiles at that remark and walks away. I close my eyes, genuinely feeling a little nauseous from watching everything spin around me. In a little while I feel a hand gently touch my shoulder; I open my eyes and see Thirteen standing next to me with a glass of water and a straw. I smile appreciatively as she puts the straw in my mouth and holds the glass as I take a sip. I pull away immediately.

"_Hot_ water?" I ask her irritably. She frowns at that.

"House, it's cold, not hot," she insists.

I remember something in spite of my mixed up cognition. Paradoxical temperature reversal…a proposed symptom of Ciguatera poisoning. Questioned by some doctors as actually a real neurological sign, I discover that it does, in fact, occur. Too bad I can't measure it empirically and write a paper on it.

"I'm tired," I tell her, not coming close to thinking straight at this point. If I was, I wouldn't admit any weakness to her.

Giving me a compassionate smile she squeezes my shoulder encouragingly.

"Then go to sleep, House." She tells me. I nod obediently and close my eyes. I'm out almost immediately.

* * *

In the early hours of the next morning, Chase finds himself in Cuddy's garage. He never tells me how he managed to get in there without setting the security alarm off and I decide that it's a need to know issue and my curiosity, great as it is, doesn't really need to know. He carefully recalls Foreman's instruction on breaking in to Lucas' car which was parked next to Cuddy's. Sweating profusely from nervousness he wipes his brow with his sleeve. Fully expecting to screw up and set the alarm off, thus getting caught and not only arrested but fired and blacklisted for the rest of his life, the Aussie asks himself for the thousandth time in two days if he is completely insane.

"Of course I am," he whispers aloud. Taking a deep breath he sets to work.

Ten minutes later Chase is sneaking away from Cuddy's house to get to his own car and drive away. He can't believe he did it without a glitch and once he's driving back to his place he is positively giddy, giggling like a teenage girl. He never thought he would find himself committing prisonable crimes for his surly formerly drug-addicted boss like this but he has to admit that he's having more fun than he has had for…well, for years. The unfortunate part is he will never be able to boast about it to anyone after it is over and Lucas is rotting in a jail cell.

Once he's at home he dials Thirteen's place, waking her from a deep sleep.

"What?" she mutters sleepily into the phone.

"Mission accomplished," he says simply before hanging up on her. He doesn't see Thirteen scowl at the phone and mutter a disgusted, "Goody," before putting down the phone and going back to sleep.

Satisfied with himself, Chase gets ready for bed. Tomorrow the police will be contacted and if he and Wilson have calculated everything accurately Lucas will be going down!


	4. Chapter 4 Part IV

**My Foe**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

_**A/N: **_This is Part IV and the last in this story, however there may be more stories in what I call the "My Series" down the line. I would like to thank Flatpickluvr for pointing out my misuse of the word bradycardia in Part III (and probably in Part II as well). Extremely rapid pulse plus weakness equals 'tachycardia', not bradycardia. I have corrected my error in Part III.

If you read this before the edit, I know that Lucas' last name is Douglas, not Roberts. I was listening to the radio, mentioned the name Roberts, yadda, yadda=brain fart!

**Warning: **This story involves illness, adult issues and strong language. Reader Discretion is advised.

* * *

**Part IV**

The next morning Chase goes to work a little earlier so he has a chance to check on House and Wilson and adjust Wilson's vitals appropriately. He goes to Wilson's room first. Making certain that he isn't being watched, he turns his back to the video camera that sends a closed circuit transmission to a screen at the nursing station; having a visual of the patients helps staff react more quickly should something turn south in the patient's rooms. That is, if the nurses actually bother to check the video screens. From what was charted in House's file last evening, he made it all the way to Wilson's room and collapsed before anyone came running. Chase can only think of one reason why his boss did that: He forgot that Wilson had not come down ill from the tainted milk and they were plotting to 'frame' Lucas for poisoning Wilson (when he actually poisoned House and thinks he is going to get away with it). Memory lapses are a common side-effect of Ciguatoxin so House's behavior is not that much of a surprise. The Fellow retrieves the laptop and begins to adjust the readings on the monitors to show a slight improvement from the night before, as would be seen once treatment of the symptoms suffered by the patient are being treated.

With that done, he stashes the laptop again and then scans through Wilson's chart to make certain that he isn't missing anything. The oncologist was given another dose of unconsciousness approximately two hours ago and will likely be emerging from his 'coma' in an hour to an hour and a half. He wants to be certain that he is around when this happens so he can make certain things are kept under his control. Satisfied that everything is as it should be, he leaves Wilson's room and heads next door.

House's condition is slowly but steadily improving as it should be. He's displayed more frequent and alert bouts of consciousness, his pruritus is under control by the addition of the antihistamine Periatin (cyproheptadine) and the SSRI 1 Elavil (amitriptyline), his blood pressure is nearly normal since he ceased vomiting and his diarrhea passed, and his heart rate is slowing as well; all of these are excellent signs. Neurologically his improvement is slower than with his cardiovascular and gastrointestinal symptoms but the myalgias and arthralgias are being controlled by Indocin (Indomethacin).

I have been sleeping lightly and begin to wake up with the sound of Chase's movements around me. I begin to move a little, attracting the younger doctor's attention.

"Good morning," the Aussie greets me. I have the feeling that he is resisting the urge to smile and thus make his greeting sound sickeningly saccharine. Instead of returning the greeting I look over to Wilson's room, where my best friend continues to lie motionlessly. I can't see his monitors from where I am at, so I can't see how he is doing. Chase notices where I am looking and nods with an inane smirk on his face.

"He looks genuinely sick doesn't he?" my idiot employee comments, nearly chuckling. I can't understand why he is behaving so…callously, and I glare angrily in his direction. Seeing the expression on my face his smirk disappears and recognition crosses his face. "You don't remember, do you?" he asks me.

Remember? Remember what? I have no idea what he means.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I ask him weakly, quickly running out of patience.

"A couple of days ago…you regained consciousness while Wilson and I were discussing how we were going to get Lucas to slip up and reveal himself as the one who poisoned you. You suggested that we frame him by faking another prank and planting clues to lead the police to him as the prankster. Then you fell asleep again."

I listen to his explanation with interest. "Go on," I urge him. I do not remember the conversation he speaks of but it sounds like something I would, when at my most devious, suggest.

Chase nods and then pulls a chair up closer to the bed and sits down. "Wilson and I came up a plan to do just that," he tells me and then briefly informs me of their plan and what has been accomplished so far. As much as I hate to admit it about a scheme that wasn't concocted by me, it sounds brilliant.

"Not bad," I tell him nonchalantly, "if you keep control of things. It can easily begin to spin out of control."

"You're cooperation will help," he says to me with a smirk.

I look at him warily, "If you expect me to get sick again I suggest you run now before I shove my cane up your ass."

With a chuckle he shakes his head. "Nah. You only have to accuse Lucas when the police get here."

I sigh silently. I know this is a vital part of their plan, but I don't relish the reaction I will receive from Lisa Cuddy when I do so…not that it really matters. She has already severed almost every tie of friendship we ever had, so it's not like I will be damaging our friendship any; there isn't a friendship to damage. That fact pains me, but there is nothing I can do about it. She has made her decision, her choices in the way she interacts with me, and I will not allow myself to be manipulated and jerked around anymore. I can't. I haven't spent all of these months working so hard on myself and my sobriety to risk throwing it away again. When Lucas is arrested she will be hurt and angry, and she may decide to direct those emotions in my direction; so be it. I am not the one who pushed things into overdrive by trying to murder her idiot boy-toy and causing havoc and incredible expense to her by flooding her house with water.

Perhaps she will learn a little humility and recognize the fact that she doesn't know me as well as she thinks she does. I've held my peace to protect her and to save what little connection we may have but if she uses this situation to be angry and resentful, perhaps such a connection is simply one of my delusions.

_Why couldn't you have just waited for me and have given me a chance to show you what kind of man I really am?_ I think dejectedly.

Chase notices something in me and asks in concern, "Are you alright, House?"

I look at him suddenly, snapping out of my reverie. Sighing quietly I tell him, "Yes. I can't wait until this is over and done with. I'm sick of this bull-shit."

With a nod in agreement, Chase then writes something in my chart and leaves without another word. I close my eyes, fighting against the thoughts of Cuddy that try to emerge from the shadows to the forefront of my mind. I know it will take a long time before I manage to achieve that with any appreciable success.

* * *

Wilson opens his eyes slowly as the drug cocktail that has been keeping him under begins to wear off. The lighting around him assaults him and he shuts his chocolate eyes against it again. After a moment or two he tries again, this time opening his eyelids much more gradually, giving his pupils a chance to adjust to the change in illumination a little easier. Once he can see he turns his head from one side to the other, taking in everything around him. At first he has difficulty remembering where he is or how he got there but as the drugs clear his system everything comes back to him. He smiles weakly; obviously he and Chase have managed to convince everybody that he is critically ill. He wonders at what stage their plan is currently in and wishes that either Chase or Thirteen was there to fill him in on how everything is progressing.

_Patience,_ the oncologist tells himself. _You'll find out soon enough._ He figures they must be close to the part where the police are brought in to investigate what has happened and the accusation against Lucas is to be made otherwise he probably wouldn't have been allowed to wake up yet.

He lifts his hand to his forehead where he remembers his head hitting the steering wheel of the car when he crashed into the ditch. Feeling the dressing over the site he wonders how much actual damage was done. Does he have stitches or a concussion? How about where the seatbelt held him back from flying into the windshield? Did he have any broken ribs and contusions? That too will be answered when the time is right, he assures himself.

As he looks to his left he can see through the glass walls into House's room. The diagnostician has the head of his bed elevated to nearly forty-five degrees . His eyes are open and he looks five hundred percent more alert and functioning than the last time Wilson saw him. His face has considerably more color. He smiles with relief, glad to see his best friend recovering well. The oncologist sighs and closes his eyes; there is still enough of the knockout drug in his system to make him very drowsy. He drifts off to a light sleep for an undeterminable amount of time.

Wilson awakes to see three male figures walk past his room and into House's. One of them is Dr. Chase, the other two wear sport jackets and casual pants; they just scream out 'cop' to the casual observer. He watches intently, ready to close his eyes the second someone looks his way. Watching as House is questioned; Wilson also takes close note of how his friend is faring physically. After what seems to be at least fifteen minutes to him he can tell that the diagnostician is worn out and ready to sleep again. It disturbs him to see House as weak and vulnerable as his is. Usually the older doctor hides his pain, weariness and weakness under a mask of almost superhero-like invincibility. Wilson knows that his friend really is very human and more vulnerable than most others realize, but the man in the next room looks positively _frail_ and he doesn't like the look of it.

Lucas will pay for what he has done. Wilson is prepared to do just about anything at this point to see it happen.

The cops turn away from House and head for the door on their way out. Wilson snaps his eyes closed and pretends that he is still unconscious, hoping that his acting skills are better now that they were in college. He waits for what seems like two or three minutes and then opens one eye a sliver to see if the cops are gone. Satisfied that they were, he opens his eyes again to see that Chase is in his room and his next door neighbor is soundly asleep again. It is ironic, the oncologist notices, how innocent his friend looks when he is sleeping. He recalls his mother making the comment once that everybody becomes an angel in the Land of Nod. He realizes that applies to House as well.

"How are you doing?" Chase asks him, nearly whispering. Wilson ponders that a moment.

"Good, I think," he answers equally as quietly. "What are the damages from the crash?"

"A small superficial cut on your forehead and some deep bruising where your seatbelt restrained you upon impact," the Australian doctor tells him reassuringly. "No stitches or fractures. It went off like a charm."

"Good." Wilson takes a few deep breaths before asking, "So you have planted the evidence?"

"It's done," Chase confirms. "Foreman is an excellent instructor in felonies. Of course the labs 'came back' on the milk sample I collected positive for Ciguatoxin so it was agreed upon by Cuddy to call in the police. They were just here a few minutes ago and House put on a brilliant act for them."

"It helps that in _his_ case Lucas really did poison him," the older doctor says, "but yes, House can be _very_ convincing." By the tone of his voice he makes it perfectly clear that sometimes that's not really such a good thing. Wilson is frequently a victim of the diagnostician's skillful performances.

"House made it clear in no uncertain terms that he believes Lucas is the prankster based on his past admitted pranks on him," Chase tells him. "They were on their way from here to Cuddy's office to review security video recordings of the day Lucas tripped House in the cafeteria, so if Cuddy hasn't already viewed them she should be doing so right about now."

This is music to Wilson's ears; she would already know by now about everything Lucas has said and done if House hadn't requested he not tell her; House rarely if ever makes requests of anyone so the oncologist had felt obliged to respect that one. That was then, however—this is now. He knows that if Lucas gets away with it again then the next time he feels it is necessary to put his rival in his place House literally will not survive it. The situation will only escalate and there is only one destination next.

Wilson knows, however, how hard this has to be on his best friend. House is in love with Lucas' girlfriend and she insists that she is in love with Lucas. No matter what happens next somebody is going to end up getting hurt. Wilson doesn't really care about the other two, but it better not end up being the diagnostician.

"Are you still willing to go back under again for a while?" Chase asks him, referring to the chemical coma Wilson was in when brought in to the ER. "It'll be easier than you having to pretend to be unconscious all of the time, but it's up to you, Wilson."

Nodding in resignation the oncologist tells the Aussie, "Let's do it…but make sure I'm awake when everything comes down on Lucas. That's something I don't want to miss!"

Chase nods. He has come prepared with a syringe in his lab coat. He approaches Wilson with it and proceeds to inject the cocktail through Wilson's PICC line.

"Sweet dreams," the younger doctor tells the older as Wilson quickly submerges again into the chemical darkness.

* * *

Chase is about to return to the Diagnostic room when he is paged to Dr. Lisa Cuddy's office. By now the police already have told her about their interview with House and his accusations against Lucas. The Aussie doesn't really want to see the Dean of Medicine, fearful of the kind of mood she may be in, but it's a necessary part of the plan which so far has been coming together remarkably well. He's not entirely certain what it is she wants from him, however. As far as she knows, he doesn't know any more about the pranking and Lucas' behavior than the rest of the hospital staff. Perhaps she needs a sounding board and with both House and Wilson out of commission has decided to use him instead.

When he arrives at her office she sees him coming and waves him in. She is sitting behind her desk watching her computer monitor intensely, a frown distorting her otherwise attractive face. Taking a huge breath, Chase enters her office and walks up to stand in front of her desk. He shifts a little nervously on his feet, chiding himself to stop being such a Sheila 2 and man up.

"You wanted to see me, Dr. Cuddy?" he says tentatively.

She looks away from the monitor and up at him. "Yes," she says quickly, "sorry—Please have a seat Dr. Chase. I apologize. I've just been viewing some security logs and what I've been seeing is a little…unexpected and I'm trying to wrap my mind around it."

Chase nods amiably, not letting on that he knows what it is she's been seeing. He takes a seat in one of the two chairs positioned in front of her desk.

"Do you recall hearing about an incident involving Drs. House and Wilson and Lucas Douglas in the cafeteria about, oh, two months ago?" The Dean of Medicine asks him. She appears quite relaxed and professional as she asks the question, but the twitch in the corner of one of her eyes and the tensed-up muscles in her jaw reveal how she is really feeling underneath her mask.

"I heard about something from others but I wasn't there myself to witness anything first hand," he answers honestly. She doesn't need to know that the others he speaks of are House and Wilson themselves.

"I was completely unaware of any incident," she tells him, "until someone mentioned it to me a couple of days ago and then again today when the police showed up at the hospital investigating a possible attempted homicide. I was shocked to find out that House had called in the police concerning his food poisoning making outrageous claims that Lucas intentionally tainted some milk and that's why both he and Wilson are suffering from Ciguatoxin poisoning! I'm curious as to how House, being as ill as he has been, was able to call the police? You wouldn't happen to know, would you?"

The Fellow looks at her, trying hard not to display the disgust he feels for her just then. Isn't it bad enough that the entire hospital has been talking about the rotten things her boyfriend has done to two of her department heads but now she's going to try to root-out some kind of conspiracy they have to falsely accuse Lucas? While it is technically true that Wilson was not poisoned by the tainted milk he easily could have been and House certainly _was_—he came close to dying from the severity of the poisoning he received and his body's reaction to it. Is this woman so totally cut off from reality, the hospital staff and the two men whom she had once called friends to be so incredibly blinded from what is really going on?

Looking her in the eye he answers calmly, "House asked me to call the police and I did. If he wishes to make accusations and can substantiate them with fact, that's his right. If you're trying to ask me whether or not I believe his accusations are true, then I will have to answer that what I think is irrelevant—it's what can be proven that matters. I heard from three people who were in the cafeteria the day Lucas tripped House. They said he made no attempt to hide it and proudly admitted to it as well as other destructive pranking. I was told he appeared to be quite smug and proud of tripping a disabled person. If that is, in fact, the truth, and I have no reason to disbelieve them because they have no reason to lie, then I think it would only be natural for House to suspect Lucas. After all, how does a toxin found in tropical reef fish find its way into a jug of milk? Someone had to have tainted it."

"But not Lucas," Cuddy tells him sternly. "He's not like that. He…he would never do anything to intentionally harm another person!"

"I wouldn't know about that," Chase tells her coldly. "If you called me here to find out who contacted the police on House's behalf, you have your answer and I'll be leaving." He rises from the chair.

"Wait," Cuddy says quickly, frowning. "I've been watching the security video of the tripping incident." She nods at the computer monitor. "Lucas did cause House to fall but there's no evidence that it was done on purpose!"

"Sure there is," the Australian doctor tells her, annoyed. "There's eyewitness testimony. Perhaps you should page some of those people in and ask them for yourself what they saw." She opens her mouth to say something more but he is tired of her denial so he says quickly, "Is that all? Don't you want an update on how House and Wilson are doing? Or doesn't it matter to you?"

"Don't presume to talk to me that way, Dr. Chase," the Dean of Medicine says to him in a low, threatening voice. Chase has had enough! He has been feeling a little bad for her and the way it is going to hurt her when Lucas is arrested for the poisoning, but he no longer feels sorry for her. She deserves to get a little hurt.

"I don't really want to talk to you at all," he tells her, glaring at her angrily. With that Chase turns and storms out of Cuddy's office without hesitation or looking back. What is she going to do—fire him? Over allowing his patient to exercise his right as a citizen and human being to file a complaint? Chase hopes that the police will have enough reasonable cause for a judge to issue them a search warrant for Lucas' car and he hopes it happens soon.

* * *

Lisa Cuddy is still red from anger long after Chase stormed out of her office. How dare he presume to know what is important to her and what isn't? He doesn't know her! He doesn't have any idea how having House and Wilson so terribly sick is upsetting her! She just cannot understand why the moment something bad happens to House everybody assumes that Lucas is at the bottom of it? Lucas isn't as selfish and conniving as House. He wouldn't lie to her like the diagnostician has time and time again!

Would he?

She cues up the portion of the security video of the incident in the cafeteria and plays it again. House and Wilson pick up trays and go through the line for their food…Wilson pays, as usual, and they head towards a table to sit down. Lucas' foot appears suddenly into House's path. The doctor snags his foot on Lucas' and flies forward…the tray flies…House hits the floor hard, preventing his face from hitting the hard surface by catching himself on his hands. His face contorts in pain, and Wilson's is horrified…Lucas' foot disappears from view again as House painfully gets up…everyone in the cafeteria is looking at the incident in horror…Lucas stands up and turns to face the duo of doctors…House looks amazed and then confused, Wilson looks like he is ready to tear the private detective's head off with his bare hands…Lucas is talking…his expression changes…he looks…he looks…satisfied. Smug. Proud—no!—arrogant. He never looks regretful, ashamed, guilty.

She stops playback and sits back in her seat, shaking her head in dismay. She has viewed that same portion of video five times now and five times she is left with the image of a smug smirk on her boyfriend's face. He wasn't sorry. He meant to do it. Lucas has never mentioned the incident to her once. When she had asked him about the pranks he had denied any responsibility for them. Has he lied? Why hasn't he told her about such a horrible event as the trip? For that matter, why hasn't House, or Wilson?

The oncologist's voice from the other day sounds in her mind: _House hasn't complained or allowed me to do so because he doesn't want to hurt you or create even more distance between the two of you than that you've created!...You have been so cut off from your friends lately…Lucas isn't going to tell you the truth about anything because he is conning you, lady….Even staff here that have no use for House know what a low-life jerk your boyfriend really is!_

Closing her eyes the Dean of Medicine moans a little and begins to rub her temples; she feels a major headache coming on. She doesn't know who or what to believe anymore. The last thing she wants is for it to be true that Lucas has been doing the things Wilson and House have been saying he has. It's so much easier to believe that all of this is nothing more than coincidence and House is only using his illness to manipulate her and get Lucas into trouble for nothing. What is the truth, though? She knows Wilson pretty well and she knows that he is loyal to House above anyone else, but she also knows that he would never lie about something so serious just because House wanted him to.

Lucas had looked smug and unrepentant or even the slightest bit concerned about tripping a cripple.

Sighing, Cuddy reaches over and picks up the phone, dialing Lucas' cell number. It rings and rings and after the fifth ring she expects it to switch her to his voicemail but it is picked up just on time.

"Hey, Babe!" the private detective answers after seeing the hospital number come up on his caller display.

"Hi," she responds less than enthusiastically. "What are you doing right now?"

"Well," he answers, "Rach and I are about to have lunch."

Cuddy perks up at hearing that. "You're home right now?"

"Yeah," Lucas replies. "I sent the babysitter home because I'm done for the day so I can spend some quality time with Rachel. Why?"

"I need to talk to you about something," she informs him, "or rather, I have to ask you a couple of questions."

"Fire away!" Lucas tells her enthusiastically. "Let me guess—you want to know what I'm wearing, right?"

Cuddy sighs silently. "Lucas, was there an incident in the hospital Cafeteria between you and House approximately two months ago?"

"Why are you asking me about something that happened months ago, Lise?"

"So, something did happen?" she presses, biting her lip.

There is a pause before the P.I. answers her, "Yeah, yeah…it was nothing really. You know how I sit…my legs sprawled out everywhere? Well, I was having lunch and I guess I had my foot out too far into the aisle when House and Wilson were passing and House tripped on it. It was no big deal, Babe. It was an accident and House was cool with it. I was worried that He might have hurt himself, but he was okay. I can't tell you how relieved I was! Why do you ask? Did either House or Wilson mention it to you?"

Cuddy suddenly feels sick to her stomach as well as headachy but she keeps her voice and words upbeat. "Oh, it's just a rumor on the grapevine that I caught wind of…I just thought I'd rather get the truth from you than listen to a bunch of rumors. I'm just curious as to why you didn't tell me about it right after it happened."

"Are you sure I didn't?" Lucas asked dubiously. "I thought I had…hmm. Well, like I said, it wasn't a big deal. House was really good about it and nobody was hurt…he didn't even mention anything about it when he went on that insurance fraud stakeout with me, remember that?"

Cuddy scowls. She remembers. She remembers how House was willing to help Lucas out by visually diagnosing a suspected fraudster in spite of the tension that has existed since the diagnostician found out about her and Lucas. House was willing to help out his romantic rival even after he was tripped by him. He was tripped by someone who didn't appear the slightest bit worried or sorry for the 'accident' immediately after it had occurred. Oh yes…she understands completely.

Before she can say anything else to Lucas she hears the doorbell ring in the distance.

"Hold on a minute, will ya, Lise? Someone's at the door." Listening carefully the Dean of Medicine hears movement as Lucas heads towards the door to answer it. The door knob turns as he opens the door.

"Are you Mr. Lucas Douglas?" an officious sounding voice asks.

"Uh, yes, I—I am," she hears Lucas confirm. He sounds a little caught off guard or even a little bit nervous.

She hears the door swing open and hit the door stop and a bunch of feet can be heard crossing the threshold of her house.

"Mr. Douglas, I'm Detective Cramer of the Mercer County Sheriff's Department. We have a search warrant to search these premises including the garage, its contents, the yard and your vehicle."

"Hey!" Lucas cries out angrily, sounding genuinely dismayed with what is happening. "You can't just come barging in here like this and start going through everything like you are! This isn't even my place! It belongs to my girlfriend…."

"We have proven probable cause to the judge, sir and he granted this search warrant," she hears the detective tell him. "Things will go much easier if you cooperate with these officers."

"Lucas!" Cuddy nearly yells into the phone, completely shocked by what she is hearing. "Lucas?"

Her boyfriend comes back on the line. "Lisa, you are not going to _believe_ this! The cops are here with a warrant to search the entire place including my car! They're looking for evidence related to the possible intentional poisoning of...of House and Wilson?! Lisa, what the hell is going on? Wilson's sick too? What the hell—?"

"Lucas, listen to me," she says to him, trying to keep him calm and focused. "If they have a warrant there's nothing you can do to stop them! Just cooperate! I'm coming home right now, okay?"

"You see what I mean, Lisa?" Lucas screeches angrily. "That goddamned son of a bitch is doing it again! House is trying to break us up by accusing me of trying to poison Wilson and him!"

"Well if you hadn't pranked them and caused so much damage at the loft they wouldn't have a foot to stand on!" Cuddy retorts angrily. "What, did you forget what the truth was when I asked you about that, too?"

Lucas sounds stunned when he says, "Lisa, what…how? Who told you--?"

"Shut up, Lucas!" the Dean of Medicine snarls in disgust and anger. "Just make sure you're there and Rachel is okay when I get there!" She hangs up the phone _hard_. She isn't surprised about the search—she had suspected it might happen from what the police had told her earlier. She is furious at his lies. She isn't certain who to believe or what exactly is going on, but there had to have been something the police and the judge thought was enough reason to issue the search warrant. A huge part of her wants to believe that this is all a big misunderstanding, but a terrible sinking feeling in her belly tells her that it probably isn't. She nearly leaps out of her seat, grabs her jacket and purse and heads out of her office. As she passes by she tells her assistant that she has to leave, there's an emergency, and she may not be coming back again today. She flies through the Clinic, looking a tad bit like a whirling dervish; she is in her car and on the road less than five minutes later.

* * *

It's the sensation of a hand on my shoulder shaking me slightly that wakes me. At first I am disoriented, a state of mind I have become familiar with lately. I see the faces of both Chase and Wilson staring at me with huge, stupid-looking grins on their faces; they look like simpletons, really. As my mind clears, it occurs to me that there might be a reason why they appear to be so elated. That's when I wonder just how long it has been that I've been sleeping.

"You two look like virgin nerds peeping in the window of a sorority house," I tell them hoarsely. I blink a few times to rid my vision of blurriness to no avail; I am frustrated with the knowledge that I am going to be having neurological side-effects like this for possibly months after I get out of the hospital. "What's going on?"

Wilson continues to grin as Chase brings a laptop into view and sets it in front of me. The screen displays a video news report from an online news source paused. I look at my best friend and my employee suspiciously. The latter nerd clicks on the play button on the screen and the video clip begins to play. It's from a local news report, and there are shots of police escorting what looks like a man out of a patrol car in into the back door of some concrete block building. I lean forward and squint; I can just make out the face of the man in custody. Lucas…. A smile slowly appears on my lips and grows wider and wider as the female reporter's voice details how he has been arrested in the poisoning 'of two Princeton area doctors'. The camera shifts to the face of another man who has to be a lawyer who keeps telling the camera 'no comment' as he follows Lucas and his keepers into the back door of the sheriff's department's station to be booked and await arraignment. The video clip ends and Chase removes the laptop again.

"When?" I ask, looking from one grinning face to the other and quickly losing the smile—I don't want to look like an idiot too.

"This morning," Wilson tells me, looking smug and self-satisfied. "The police searched Cuddy's place and Lucas' car yesterday afternoon and by midnight they had enough of the evidence from what they collected to issue an arrest warrant."

"Mission accomplished!" Chase said, beaming.

I have to admit that I'm impressed with the scam they managed to pass off but there is no way I'm ever going to let them know exactly how much.

"How the hell long did I sleep for?" I demand.

"About eighteen hours, on and off," Chase tells me. "You'd kind of wake up for a few minutes, long enough to harass the nurses about one thing or another and then you'd go back to sleep. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure that you actually woke up completely each time."

"Don't worry," Wilson cuts in, dead-panning it. "I had a talk with Nurse Thelma and she's not going to go ahead with the groping charges after all."

I look at him incredulously, uncertain whether or not he's telling me the truth. Wilson catches my unspoken question and nods in response.

"Is she the one with a bit of junk in the trunk in all the right places?" I question, trying to remember which nurse they are referring to.

"Oh yeah," both of them say almost simultaneously, nodding, a look of appreciation on their faces.

"Damn!" I mutter, wishing that I could remember that. After all, if I actually reached out and helped myself to a handful I'd at least like to remember it! "Stupid short-term memory loss!"

Chase laughs and then reminds Wilson to get back to bed before somebody begins to suspect something. Wilson nods, smiling. Chase makes his leave of us and Wilson remains in the chair next to my bed. I can't fully enjoy the sight of Lucas in handcuffs without remembering that Lisa is now alone and hurting. Trying hard not to be too troubled by that—after all, she did make her own choices—Wilson notices how serious I have become and his smile fades.

"She's doing okay," my best friend tells me consolingly. "I think she was coming around to the truth before her place was searched, by some of the comments she's made. It'll take her time."

I nod somberly. I understand all about feelings taking time to work through, especially hurt ones. As much as I want to forgive her completely for the way she refused to believe in me and give me a chance, and for the way she allowed me to be humiliated time and again by her boytoy, I'm not certain that I can…at least right now, anyway. Her complete lack of faith in me hurt—it still does, and I'm not certain I can trust her completely again. We both need time, and what comes after that between us, if anything at all, I just don't know. For right now, I have to focus on my recovery, both physically and psychologically. At least I can find hope in the fact that I have Wilson—and maybe even Chase—to lean on until I don't need to anymore.

A thought occurs to me. "Did anybody call Nolan and tell him what happened or is he going to be one pissed off shrink because I haven't been calling him?"

For a few moments Wilson gives me this look of complete shock and he really has me going when a cocky half-smile breaks out on his face and all I want to do is smack it off.

"He says get well soon," the oncologist tells me smugly.

"Jerk!" I snarl, but deep down I want to smile. I can't do that…it will completely compromise my reputation—and that I simply can't have happen.

1 SSRI: selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, a class of antidepressant medications; amitriptyline is thought to relieve itching and burning by blocking fast sodium channels (think conduction of nerve impulses) activated by Ciguatoxin.

2 According to an Australian friend of mine, a Shiela is a somewhat flirtateous woman similar to our term "chick". When asked why that name is used he told me he hadn't a clue. So there is absolutely no intent on my part to offend anyone. If any Australians out there read this and his definition given to me is inaccurate, feel free to comment and correct me since I'm Canadian and we don't use that term here!


	5. Chapter 5 Part V

**My Foe**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

_**A/N: **_Well, so much for part IV being the last! I was going to write the following as part of an independent story to follow "My Foe" but realized that it just couldn't stand on its own so I added it as a fifth chapter here. I apologize for it taking me so long to update but there has been a death in the family and I haven't had a lot of time to write. It may be a while before I update any of the stories I have on the go, at least until after the funeral. I ask for your patience!

Thanks to those who have been reviewing. I often incorporate reviewer's ideas into what I write so it really is a great motivator for me when I receive reviews! To those of you who have been reading along but haven't reviewed yet, there is still time!

**Warning: **This story involves adult issues and strong language. Reader Discretion is advised.

* * *

**Part V**

One month. That is the amount of time it has taken me to recuperate from my near death experience from fish poisoning. A week after Lucas Douglas was arrested for poisoning me (and framed by Wilson and Chase for Wilson's phony poisoning) I was well enough to be moved to a private room in a regular ward. I still suffered from random neurological 'attacks' as an aftereffect of the Ciguatoxin's influence on my nervous system. Such attacks included bouts of temporary itching and pins and needles in some very unusual areas of my body, muscle spasms and jerks, visual problems (blurred vision and double vision being the most prevalent) and short term memory problems. These, I knew, could continue to plague me for many more months before they disappeared. My cardiovascular health was improving daily and the gastrointestinal side-effects had pretty much been extinguished by the fourth day after onset. A week after I was moved to a ward room I was discharged but not allowed to come back to work until my bouts of dizziness, my short term memory problems and my general strength and well-being were better.

Dr. Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine, quickly discovered that Wilson and Chase had staged Wilson's illness when she caught the oncologist sitting with me in my room discussing the ethical implications of what he and my Fellow had done to Lucas. She had declared that she wouldn't reveal our little secret after it came out that the charges for poisoning Wilson had been dropped in exchange for a confession in House's case. The skunk was released on bail pending his trial but at least he was going to get his. We got lucky; if Cuddy had reported our little sting to the police, Lucas most likely would have been given a 'Get Out Of Jail Free' card.

I'm sitting at home in front of the TV, bored silly. No work means no puzzles to solve and no puzzles to solve leaves my mind without something to keep it occupied. I'm going insane without something to focus my attention on; I have always been that way. I believe that's why I found myself getting into so much trouble in my youth. School was mundane and pedantic, a brainwashing institution that tried to drive all original thought and opposing opinions out of the upcoming generation of mindless serfs being prepared to serve their industrial, corporate and military masters. The education system today hasn't improved or changed in intent all that much but I digress; I was always bored beyond belief, having already known the information from my own self-study at the library or having grasped the concept the first time it was taught and frustrated with having to wait for the rest of my classmates to grasp the concept before the teacher moved on. I would end up trying to entertain myself during these periods of monotony; my love for pranks and intelligent humor combined with my active imagination and naturally sarcastic nature led to activities that my teachers, principals, local law enforcement and, of course my parents found objectionable, to say the least.

Wilson is out grocery shopping, a chore I refuse to do. Walking up and down rows of food, personal care items and household cleaners pushing a cart along with a bunch of thirty-something house-fraus and their screaming brats while mind-numbing muzak plays loud enough for the ear to catch a hint of a note here and there but softly enough to act like a constant annoying whine on the periphery of one's consciousness is not my idea of a fun time; without him around my boredom takes on the edge of torture.

The doorbell rings and I am tempted not to acknowledge it, but then it occurs to me that I have nothing better to do and no matter whom it may be on the other side of the door I'm certain that I can find some entertainment out of mocking and/or humiliating him or her. That brings a slight smile to my face; I rise slowly from the sofa, grab my cane and head to the door, making certain that I wipe the smile off of my face before I answer. When I swing the door open I'm surprised to see Lisa Cuddy standing there, about to ring the bell again when she notices me. My heart does a flip in my chest upon seeing her and I chastise myself for being so weak whenever I'm around her. After all that has happened, I should know better than to fall for her obvious physical attributes and charms, but hell, I am a red-blooded American man and all of that crap, and a great rack makes Little Greg want to take over control of my brain for a little while.

"Hi," I say, staring down her low-cut blouse briefly before meeting her brocade blue eyes staring up at me. I can't help but smirk at the way she rolls her eyes at me, having noticed my quick ogling.

"Hi," she returns and then looks past me into the loft. "Can I come in?"

I consider her question. If Wilson were here he would not appreciate me welcoming her inside. He still carries a great deal of anger and bitterness over the way she reintroduced Lucas into our lives and flaunted him in front of me after leading me on for weeks before admitting her relationship with the P.I.. He is very protective of me sometimes, something that can be both incredibly endearing and incredibly annoying depending upon the day and my mood.

I resent the fact that she didn't tell me about Lucas and her as soon as I returned instead of flirting with me and getting my hopes up. I hate the fact that she told him about my delusion of her and me making love and my psychotic breaks that led me to Mayfield. It hurt to watch her push both Wilson and I away, straining our friendship with her to the breaking point in order to pacify her boytoy. It tore at my heart to tell her that I was in love with her only to have her slap me and run away to Lucas. I'm angry that she bailed him out of jail, and while she's not living with him anymore, she still maintains contact with him as he prepares for trial. Yet, I can't bring myself to cut ties with her in the same way Wilson has. I realize that Lucas was lying to her the entire time they were together and was manipulating her as much as he was me. That doesn't mean I still trust her as I had before Mayfield, but I can't bring myself to be furious with her. My emotions are confused and uncertain. A huge part of me still loves her, but an equally large part of me wants to push her away for the sake of my sanity and sobriety.

Instead of answering verbally, I step back and hold the door open for her to enter. Once she's inside I shut the door behind her. One thing I don't do is offer to take her coat. She is not completely welcome here and I want her to realize that.

"Wilson will be home in about fifteen minutes," I tell her, trying to appear nonchalant even though I'm definitely not feeling that way. "I wouldn't recommend being here when he gets home."

She nods and walks away from the foyer into the condo proper, looking around the place. It occurs to me that this is the first time she has been in the loft since Wilson bought it out from underneath her and Lucas.

"I like what Wilson has done with this place," she said approvingly and I don't detect any resentment or sarcasm in her voice.

"How do you know it was Wilson who decorated?" I ask with mock indignity.

Cuddy gave me a knowing smirk. "I've seen how you decorate," she commented, referring back to my apartment. "Besides, this just screams Wilson."

She's right. Very little in the loft screams me, but then again, it's not really my place. I just bunk here while I try to keep myself sober and 'uncrazy'.

"You came here to comment on the décor?" I ask her a little coolly. "I could have e-mailed you a picture and saved you the trip."

My discomfort with her is not lost on her. She looks up at me, tossing her straight black-brown hair over her shoulder flirtatiously and I have to wonder if she's doing that on purpose or if it's just a genetic predisposition she is unaware of possessing.

"I came over to make peace, House," she tells me with an expression of regret on her face. I know she is waiting for me to say something in response to that but I don't have any intention of making things easy on her, so I simply stare at her in silence, waiting on her. She stares back at me, frowning slightly and then sighs.

"Can I sit down for a few minutes?" Cuddy asks, slightly frustrated.

I shrug, and reply, "I don't know. Can you?"

The Dean of Medicine takes that as a yes and sits on the long sofa and then gestures for me to join her. With a silent sigh I limp around and grab the remote control, turning the volume on the TV down but not muting it. Then I sit down at the opposite end of the piece of furniture, setting my cane down on the surface of the table.

"What do you want, Cuddy?" I ask her, trying to sound annoyed but it doesn't come out sounding like it. I'm still easily played out, another aftereffect of the poisoning. "You want absolution? Go seek out a priest—or in your case, a rabbi—because that's not my specialty."

"I honestly didn't know that Lucas had pranked Wilson and you like he had," she insisted, shaking her head and spreading her hands out in front of her, palms up. "If I had known I would have confronted him on it. I'm sorry that I wasn't paying close enough attention to have seen what was going on."

I look at her, my eyes burning a hole through her as I search her soul for a spark of the Lisa Cuddy I once knew before all of this mess, but for the life of me, I can't see her anywhere in the stranger sitting before me. Disappointed, I shake my head and exhale loudly, rising to my feet. "Is that all you came to say? Because if so, then you've said it and you can go home to your daughter now." I tell her sharply.

She stands up as well. "What the hell is the matter with you? I came here to apologize and you're acting like a jerk about this!"

Now I'm angry as well. "You didn't come here to apologize! You came here to _justify_ your actions under the cloak of making amends," I insist, raising my voice somewhat. "Well, you've done that so you can pat yourself on the back, shake off the guilt and leave here feeling good about yourself! Just don't expect me to forget everything that's happened between us, Cuddy, because I refuse to. I've learned a lot about you from these past months but not as much as I have about myself. I'm still me, House, the jerk! I'm still not good enough for you as a friend or as a lover, am I? Because we both know that if Lucas hadn't been caught poisoning Wilson and me you'd be at home with him right now playing house with your baby in your perfect, _reliable_ relationship. Well, I'm through with trying to prove to you that I'm a new man because I'm not! I'm still a surly, misanthropic ass, only now I'm that without the Vicodin!"

She marches angrily around the sofa now, coming to stand right in front of me, her eyes flaring in fury. "I should have known better than to try to reason with you! You're too much of a creep to actually shut up long enough to allow me to explain!"

"There's nothing left to explain!" I yell. She looks like she wants to scratch my eyes out but turns and strides towards the front door instead. I follow her, wanting to be the one to slam the door on her ass! She spins around and takes a startled step backwards, not expecting me to be standing right behind her. She quickly recovers, pointing a finger in my face.

"You think you were the only one to fall apart last spring?" she nearly screams and then, realizing that she has said more than she intended, covers her mouth with her hand and looks away. At this point I can see that she has begun to tremble from head to toe and in spite of her effort to hide any sign of vulnerability the look of pain in her misty eyes betrays her. Seeing her like that, I realize that I'm seeing for the first time in nearly a year the Lisa Cuddy I fell in love with. I'm afraid to do so much as breathe for fear that she'll disappear again and never return.

"What do you mean by that?" I ask her, sotto voce. My anger is gone, replaced with curiosity and something else that I can't put a name to just now.

"Nothing," she tells me coldly, shutting down, and the woman I used to know disappears. "This was a waste of time." She goes to the door and tries to open it but I hold it shut and force her to look at me.

"Tell me," I demand with finality. "You're not leaving until you do."

Cuddy glares up at me defiantly. "Like hell I'm not!" she insists and pulls harder on the door to no effect. Turning on me she spits out, "A few seconds ago you had no interest in hearing anything I had to say and now I'm supposed to spill my guts out to you? How does that work?"

I smirk angrily. "You just said something that could possibly be of some interest to me, that's how! Now tell me what you meant!"

She huffs indignantly, crossing her arms in front of her chest as she regards me suspiciously.

"How do I know you won't use what I tell you against me somehow?" she demands.

I shake my head once. "You don't."

Her eyes flare again but I can see her starting to give in. After a moment she shakes her head and looks down at her feet. I hear what sounds like a bitter laugh come out of her before she says, "You scared me to death that day you walked into my office and began to fall apart in front of my eyes. I had no idea things were that bad, House. For years you've been this indestructible, menacing force with more than nine lives and in a strange way I was comforted somehow by that. When I realized that you weren't the super-anti-hero I had imagined—that you were just as vulnerable and broken as I was—I didn't know how to deal with what I was feeling, but I was terrified for you…and me."

Cuddy stops for breath and I remain silently attentive, my eyes fixed on her.

"That's why I took you to Wilson. I knew I was about to lose it and I didn't want you or anyone else to see that." She sighs and looks up at me again. Her eyes are wet but otherwise she is the image of calm. "Long story short, I had a mini- breakdown of my own. I took a week off of work because I couldn't get myself out of the house, I was weepy, anxious. I couldn't sleep more than one or two hours a night. I was barely able to take care of Rachel. Wilson forced me to see someone for it, a psychiatrist in Trenton. It took me almost the entire time you were away to get back on my feet completely to the point where I felt like me again. During that time my therapist was encouraging me to move forward with my life because there was no guarantee you were even going to come back to Princeton once you were released.

"One night Lucas called me up. I couldn't even remember who he was until he reminded me. He said that he'd been thinking about me and wanted to know if I'd meet him for drinks…well, anyway, I was afraid that hopes of ever having my dream of the perfect husband and the perfect children in the perfect house living the perfectly happy life I've always wanted wouldn't happen now that you…." She allows her sentence to drift off and sighs. "Lucas seemed like my last hope of ever having it come true. Then you came back looking better than I'd seen you in a very long time; I was confused. I didn't intend on leading you on, House. I just felt like I didn't know what my next step should be and I wasn't looking forward to telling you about Lucas and me because I didn't want to hurt you so soon after your hospitalization. Listen, no excuses. I made the choice that I thought was the healthiest one for me and Rachel. Now I know I chose poorly, and I've made a mess of everything; I really did come over here to apologize but my pride wanted to keep up the pretenses just a little bit longer."

I look down at her, trying to absorb and process everything she has just told me. Even though I can understand a little better what was going through her mind when she hooked up with Lucas, I still find myself afraid to let go of the anger and pain. Even after I had returned and she saw the progress I had made and continued to make she still continued to choose Lucas over me and treated Wilson and me like we no longer mattered to her anymore. I can forgive her hiding her relationship with Lucas from me as long as she did, but I'm not able to forgive what she chose to do thereafter. It will take a lot of time and big attitude changes before I will be able to forgive, if ever.

"Again," I tell her calmly, "what exactly is it that you want from me, Cuddy? No one forced you to continue seeing Lucas or shun Wilson and me after that? What do you expect me do with what you've told me?"

Cuddy looks up at me longingly, biting her lower lip. She looks so vulnerable at this moment and my protective nature wants to sweep her into my arms and try to take away her pain, ignoring my own. I remind myself that that is exactly what she is hoping for and her look has been at least partially calculated to manipulate me—not that I have any right to judge her for that since I've done enough of my own manipulating to get the result I want in my years associated with her. Still, I force myself to resist falling for it.

Realizing that I'm standing firm, she looks away a little disappointed and shrugs. "Say we can pick up our friendship where we left it and just forget this whole catastrophe even happened," she answers hopefully.

I shake my head no and explain, "I can't do that, Cuddy. I'm not the same person I was before I went to Mayfield, and neither are you. I can't just wipe my memory of everything that's been said and done. Real life doesn't work like that."

Her eyes fill with genuine hurt now. "But, House--?"

"I'm willing to start over," I tell her, cutting her off mid-sentence, "right from the beginning. We become new friends starting now and move forward from here. We're not confidants or buddies. There's not going to be any more thoughts of a relationship developing between us. Maybe someday it can be but not now; that kind of trust has to be earned again. That's all I can do for now. Don't ask me for more. Take it or leave it."

She scowls at me, not looking pleased with my proposal, but I really don't care. She was thinking about her future when she chose Lucas; I'm thinking about mine now, a future that is clean and sober and perhaps even happy from time to time. Whether or not she is going to be a part of it, I'm not certain; I'd like her to be, but it's up to her to accept my terms or reject them. Boundaries, Dr. Nolan calls them, something I've never fully understood until now.

"That goes both ways, you know?" she warns me. "No more special privileges; I won't be giving you any more slack than I do any other employees. I won't argue with you over what your responsibilities are—you'll do what I tell you or you'll be fired just like everyone else, and I'm not going to cover your ass if you pull something stupid. I mean it! Are _you_ prepared to accept _that_?"

I meet her eyes. "I am."

She pauses for a moment longer and then shakes her head adamantly. "Well, I'm not. I'll always care about you, Greg! You'll always be the exception, whether we like it that way or not. I am your friend, even if you're no longer willing to be mine. A couple bad decisions don't cancel out all of the good things that have happened in the past. Every time you've screwed up, and we both know that the list of the times you have is longer than the distance from here to Camden, I've forgiven you and continued to be there for you. You _owe_ me, and I'm calling in the marker now. Because the next time you need a friend I intend on making up for the idiot I've been and I'll be there. You can deny it now but I know you'll be there for me when I need you and you know I'm right."

Without warning she steps up to me, pulls my head down towards her and plants a gentle kiss on the cheek she had struck months ago and then rushes out of the loft before I can argue with her. I go to the doorway and watch as she quickly retreats and climbs into the elevator. The pocket doors slide shut and she is gone. I reach up and touch the spot where her lips made contact with my cheek. I swear it tingles! Despite the fact that I can't get over what a bossy, stubborn, impossible woman she is, I can't keep a smile off my face. _That_ is the Lisa Cuddy I used to know. I hope she is back to stay, but only time will tell.

I retreat back into the loft and shut the door, realizing that I'm not bored anymore.

"Fuck," I murmur when the realization hits me that I'll never be able to banish that bitch from my mind and heart. She's like a bad stain that will never wash out, and secretly I'm glad but I'll be damned if I ever let anyone find out. Wearing one's heart on one's sleeve is for chumps and idiots.

~{fin}~


End file.
